A Parliamentary Affair (9 page)

Sir Patrick Mayhew, Secretary of State, shuffled his notes and put on record once again the policy of the government. His patrician accent, self-deprecating manner and languid stance were unintentionally but uncannily similar to all English forebears in this post, a throwback to less complicated times when the answer to such colonial problems was to send a gunboat or an extra battalion of Scottish regulars. Unlike them, he yearned not for dominance but for peace, for a glimmer of an end to the horrors and atrocities.

‘What is our purpose in Northern Ireland? It is primarily to help the people there to secure a tranquil, just and prosperous way of life. It remains divided as a community, but I sense that increasingly there is manifested by ordinary people from each side a deep desire to see cooperation.’

Elaine felt out of place. There was no great ceremony today; nobody much was listening. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard bench. By teatime she was the only non-Ulster backbencher on either side and was wishing that she had taken no notice of Roger Dickson and his come-hither grey eyes. Her acceding so readily to his suggestion was a new and disturbing tendency on her part to wish to please those in authority, especially him. When Dickson asked her a favour, with that big head of dark hair with its whisper of silver at the side which made her want to stroke it, his easy manner and quiet baritone voice, it was getting hard to refuse. She should have said, ‘You have to be joking, Roger’, and removed herself like everyone else.

She rose at last with a dragging sense of anti-climax, cheated of a great event. Still, she must do her best. She pushed herself to sound forceful, energetic, positive.

‘Madam Deputy Speaker; I hope I may help put right the complaints of Honourable Members opposite that the green benches are always empty for these topics. I can today only make a small contribution to the House’s deliberations, but in my constituency of South Warmingshire we have a substantial group of people of Irish and Ulster origins who play a large part in local life. I believe they would want me to take an interest today.’

Most MPs could say that. She ploughed on. Her constituency deserved more fulsome description but the depressing atmosphere limited her inventiveness. Nevertheless she had started. Pity there was no one else here to watch – no Mike, no Karen. It couldn’t be helped. As ever, once on her feet she relaxed a little and concentrating on the job in hand began to enjoy herself.

‘We on the mainland take our nationality for granted, despite all the anxieties over Europe. We know who we are, we know our government, we rule ourselves. In Ulster forty per cent of the population feels it is governed by a hostile culture. The other sixty per cent wants to stay with the Kingdom but is terrified it may be abandoned. No one can feel secure or comfortable in circumstances like that.’ It was straightforward stuff, positioning herself as understanding both sides but taking neither.

‘The province’s economic performance is proving resilient during the recession. Although as the Secretary of State has admitted unemployment now stands at over fourteen per cent of the population, the rate of increase has slowed down in recent months and is below that of the UK as a whole. Similarly, even though output and employment have both fallen over the year, that compares with a UK average which has been falling nearly twice as fast.’

The numbers were culled both from the government’s brief and from Marcus’s tables. As she read them out she was acutely conscious that they did not exactly offer a tale of resounding success. She finished a little lamely: ‘Taken overall, the past year has provided encouraging evidence of Northern Ireland’s economic potential and capabilities.’ Mayhew was whispering approvingly about her to a fellow minister, who leaned back to examine her. The whip was scribbling a note in his folder. Not long now.

Watching the clock, she addressed her remarks to the Secretary of State. ‘It is impressive that so much progress has been made already by the talks on the future of the province. Of course we want to find a sensible, democratic solution. If we are to beat the terrorists, men and women of peace and goodwill must work together. The only group to gain from any breakdown of talks would be the IRA.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Madam Deputy Speaker. The path ahead is stony and we will stumble many times. But there is only one way forward, and I offer my Right Honourable Friends my full support on what I hope will be, at last, the road to success.’

Elaine sat down to murmured ‘Hear, hears’. She was surprised to find she was trembling. The whip on duty entered a quick summary and the comment that she had done well in trying circumstances.

Later, Roger Dickson, reading the whip’s remarks, reflected that Elaine must have worked hard to get her speech researched and written so quickly. She had genuine political talent, no doubt about that. He had not given her much help, had not even managed to come and listen. Maybe he should try and make it up to her before the recess.

Elaine was wrong in one respect: her assumption that no one was taking any notice of her that afternoon. Her words would be recorded in Hansard and her views noted, on this as on every other occasion she was to speak. But within a week her name would be entered on lists, in London, in New York, in Belfast, in Dublin, in secret places and safe houses.

At Westminster itself nothing is ever missed or ignored. Two of her backbench colleagues read her speech in Hansard and were impressed in their turn. The Conservative backbench Northern Ireland committee needed a joint secretary. If she were willing, a nomination and a seconder would be arranged. There would be no worries about a contest: that was all taken care of. Nor was there an enormous amount of work to do, just meeting an invited speaker each week and going for a drink afterwards. The whips felt it would be a good thing to have a woman involved, and had hinted it would be a shame if she came to the end of her first parliamentary term with nothing to show for her undoubted ability and staunch support. Elaine detected the protecting, threatening hand of Roger Dickson. And so it was done.

Meanwhile other backbench Conservative committees were also reorganising after the election. Around thirty such committees exist, replicated on the Labour side. There are no agendas, no apologies, no minutes, no action list drawn up at the end of each session. Instead these are private meetings in the House of Commons open only to those taking the party whip. Regularly the distinguished officers of a backbench committee will take tea and talk shop with the appropriate Secretary of State. These men and women, elected by their fellow MPs, are treated with extraordinary deference and given precedence in debate alongside adherents of the more formal House Select Committees. Key posts are strongly contested: by ex-ministers, by would-be ministers, by never-to-be ministers looking for a little outcrop of rock to scramble to, a toehold on the foothills of the great
mountain of state, affording at least a better view than the trampled, overcrowded undergrowth spread out below.

The backbench Environment committee presented a bigger battle than Northern Ireland. Andrew Muncastle found himself the object of considerable attention as his nomination paper, signed by Martin Clarke and another crony from the Snakes and Ladders Dining Club, appeared on Greg Shepherd’s office wall. He had not expected to find himself in competition with several weighty former junior ministers with friends in County Hall. Mostly their objective was to persuade Whitehall to subsidise council coffers more heavily in the run-up to county elections. The prospect of a bottomless pit for public cash, just as tax revenues were dwindling, filled the Treasury with alarm.

Andrew, confirmed government supporter and with enough friends in the right places, was duly elected.

The weather became sultry. It became too hot to sit on the Terrace in the mornings, baking in the sun, while a strange smell sometimes floated up from the river below. By contrast the evenings were cooler and pleasant, but there was no point in hanging around just for the sake of it; the whips were always on the lookout for under-employed manpower.

Elaine trudged back to her flat. Mike was in California, Karen still at school. The Commons would be finished in a week. The exhilaration and euphoria of the first days had worn off very quickly, as was to be expected. Not that any kind of disillusion had set in; the gap had been filled by a struggle to master all her new tasks. She needed to think through the mass of information being sprayed around. It all left her hardly any time to draw breath.

How much easier it must be for an Andrew Muncastle, with somebody knowledgeable – his grandfather – close at hand. Or for other new women MPs from a political background. Ann Winterton and Virginia Bottomley had been able to turn to husbands who had preceded them to the House. Not exactly a task for Mike, flying away God knows where. She wished she had someone – a guide, a mentor perhaps – at the very least, on a quiet night like this, a companion, to listen and to share.

It was not going to be an easy life.

When she had the flat to herself on evenings like tonight when there was no vote, Elaine had soon devised her own system of avoiding becoming too lonely. If there was nobody around, she would make the most of her solitude. A little uninterrupted pampering would be perfect, especially after a long, sweaty day.

She set about her task methodically. The small television set was moved into the bathroom and balanced on a stool. A generous measure of single-malt whisky went into a chunky crystal tumbler placed on the corner of the bath. Blue foam bath essence was poured into the running hot water. The little room filled rapidly with sweet-scented steam. Three large fluffy towels came out of the airing cupboard and formed a pink nest on the floor, the talc perched on top like a baby bird waiting to be fed. Faced with an hour or two to spare and the need to unwind, Elaine plumped for a lazy wallow in a hot bath.

Here, surrounded by rich foam perfumed by Nina Ricci, she could sing, soap herself, take a drink, rub the loofah wherever she wished, wiggle her toes with care up the tap and gaze down her nose at her glistening body with curiosity and modest pride. Not bad at all for thirty-five: not a wrinkle, not a sag, not a scar – not yet. Only a tiny mark low down on the right where the gynaecologist had entered to tie her tubes. More pregnancies were not on the agenda, or mornings remembering to take the pill. She smiled as she recalled interviewers, local and national, enquiring sympathetically about the sacrifices she had made to get to Westminster. Oh yes, she had made sacrifices. To become an MP she had sacrificed a load of undesirable activity, happily giving up both housework and morning sickness in return for a job she loved.

Fuzzily through the steam she examined the half-moons of her breasts and their small pale nipples. Then the hillock of her belly and its navel, like an extinct volcano, the suds forming a white mountain top, slithering down the sides like an eruption. She took another large sip of whisky, hummed merrily and piled more foam in the hollows between belly and hip-bones. Only in the bath did they stick up now: she would have to diet during the recess. Some hope.

It was nearly ten o’clock. Elaine turned on the television set and lay back, waiting for the nightly news and comment. The foam swished around her shoulders, wetting her hair and covering her chin like a man’s beard, hiding her body in sparkling white like the hair on a great warrior’s chest. In the bath she could pretend to be male, but still intensely enjoy being female. She giggled and blew bubbles off her nose. The whisky warmed her inside, making her drowsy, suspended in time, independent of gravity, no longer subject to the stifling restrictions at Westminster, the unsmudged make-up and ladderless tights, the immaculate expensive outfits and unrelenting public scrutiny.

She moved her hand slowly over her breasts, caressing, curious and entertained as the nipples rose and hardened under her fingers. Much too good to be wasted.

What a pity Mike isn’t here. If he goes on neglecting me like this I shall have to get a boyfriend. He wouldn’t even notice, I’ll bet.

The television pictures swam gently before her unfocused eyes as the producer chose a long shot of the Commons in session. Elaine’s fingers slithered down her belly and involuntarily, because it was such a delicious feeling and because it was such a long time since Mike had been down there, began very gently, almost without noticing, to flicker up and down, up and down, in the moistness between her legs.

One tall figure standing at the bar of the House turned to face the camera. With her free hand she raised her glass in mocking salute. He seemed to look straight at her, to know what she was doing. It was nonsense, of course: this was a recording, a piece at random. He was not there. He could not see her.

She wished he could.

It was Roger Dickson.

She sat up, startled, pulling her hand away, flesh tingling. The remaining whisky spilled into the bath, its alcohol mixing with the steam. Suddenly the place smelled lascivious, like a brothel. She coughed and spluttered as the foam with a life of its own found its sinister way into her mouth and nose. The water sloshed dangerously around and she felt herself slipping, unable to get a grip.

What on earth was she doing? Thinking? Not thinking, more like. The man was married. Happily, for all she knew.
Do Not Touch; verboten
.

Dickson had made no move of any kind, overt or subtle. He had shown nothing other than a fraternal, professional interest. His pushing her to make her maiden speech in that ghastly Irish debate was no evidence that he saw her as anything special – rather the opposite. Other people had lost their parliamentary virginity weeks ago. His suggestion of a nickname had been a game to relax her, nothing more. If he were taking a shine to her she was resolutely unaware of it.

Yet there had been something wistful in his eyes in the library. And in the gardens. Surely she was not imagining that.

Elaine sat for a moment in the subsiding sudsy water and tried to think with more clarity. Dickson was a deeply attractive man, of that there was no doubt. There was no harm in admitting that. But he was a formidable character, vital to her further progress as her whip, and absolutely not to be trifled with. Misjudging him could lead her to make a complete fool of herself.