A Sentimental Traitor (16 page)

‘You sure it was the Egyptians?’

Usher filled his lungs with cold, grey air, then sighed as he let it slowly escape. ‘Everybody says it was the Egyptians, Harry. And I don’t know enough to disagree with
them.’

‘I think they may be wrong.’

‘And you may be right. There might be a time when we have to reconsider all this. But not before the election.
“For if the trumpets give an uncertain sound, who shall prepare
himself to the battle?”’
The Prime Minister stood in thought, gazing into the distance to where beech trees stood gaunt and frostbitten against the skyline, ripped bare, rather like
his soul. For a while he seemed lost, then suddenly, he was back. He laid a hand on Harry’s shoulder and they began walking slowly along the paved path that marked the sides of the rose
garden. ‘They tell me there’s a new lady in your life. That’s good, Harry. It’s been a long time for you. I wish you much happiness.’

The sentiment was perhaps premature, Harry thought, but this wasn’t the time to argue the point.

‘And, tell me, how is it out there, on the front line?’ Usher waved a paw at some distant world that might lie beyond the boundaries of the estate.

‘A little tougher than I would like, but fine. I have a new press officer, young woman, walked in off the street, literally. Doing rather well.’

‘Then I may have to pull rank and confiscate her! Could do with a little help in whipping the jackal pack into shape. Or simply distracting them. She a looker, your press girl?’

‘I haven’t noticed,’ Harry lied, and laughed.

‘Best keep it that way. You know, I remember one press officer, when I was a junior minister at the Treasury all those years ago . . .’ But once again he trailed off, standing still,
staring at the ground, lost in his own world. And sadness, Harry thought.

‘I fear you’re offering too much information for a humble backbencher,’ Harry prompted.

‘What?’ said Usher, startled.

‘That press officer.’

‘No, no,’ Usher protested wistfully, ‘it’s just – these roses. They’re beautiful in the summer. I was wondering if I’ll ever get to see them
again.’

Patricia Vaine sat at an outside table on the Galerie de la Reine Koninginne, a covered arcade that ran a little back from the Grande Place in Brussels. The arcade was long and
luxurious with a high glazed roof, and up there, amongst the metal rafters, she could see a tangle of children’s balloons, the survivors of some New Year celebration. It seemed such a long
time ago, but most things did. She never looked back; it was one of her firmest rules.

She was outside one of her favourite coffee shops. The Belgians could be hopelessly dull but they made excellent chocolate cake, and she had allowed herself a small slice along with her coffee,
a deep, rich cup of the darkest liquid that was mostly Colombian with a hint of Brazil and had the kick of a mule. She was fussy about her coffee, had a nose for it, just as she had a nose for the
weakness of men, and in particular a man like Ben Usher, whose poll ratings were chaotic and who had shown himself to be deliciously vulnerable, like a great actor who could no longer remember his
lines. It was time for her to lead the cat calls – but how?

She spotted a middle-aged woman approaching, comfortable walking shoes, tourist map clutched firmly in hand and a look of determination stretched implacably across her face. She had two
complaining teenagers in tow. As they drew nearer, Patricia could hear they were English, presumably on a half-term break, judging by the nature of the boys’ complaints. Their hotel breakfast
seemed to lack a certain Britishness; the cereal was stale, the fruit juice had too many bits in it, the butter too hard. They passed by, squabbling all the way. The English abroad were not an
attractive sight, Patricia thought, so stuck in their ways that it was a mystery how they had once had the imagination to govern half the world.

Then it struck her. The absurdity of the English. That’s when she began to laugh, almost uncontrollably until tears gathered in her eyes. And in that moment she knew what she would do
next. It was so simple, yet it would cause uproar. She enjoyed the idea so much that she decided to write it down on her paper napkin. It sat there, staring back at her, and she laughed all the
more. Just one word.

Marmite.

The suggestion, splashed across the front pages of three tabloids, that Brussels was about to ban Marmite caused a storm that was impossible to understand, unless you were
British. The little pot of dark goo had divided opinion in the country for more than a hundred years. Made originally from the discarded malt scrapings of brewers’ vats, it had always been
laden with salt, additives and controversy. Even its marketing campaign captured the schizophrenia of the product – ‘Love It, or Hate It.’ And many did.

But it was a uniquely British love-hate relationship, and when the rumour began that it was about to be removed from the shelves as part of some European crackdown on additives, the press went
wild. They called parliamentarians and commissioners in Brussels demanding answers, but got nothing except confusion and contradiction – which was scarcely surprising, since the rumour was
entirely false. Yet it was entirely credible. For wasn’t this a European oligarchy which had once banned the selling of British goods by British people to British customers in British weights
– pounds and ounces? In 2001 a vegetable seller in Sunderland had been seized by two police officers at his market stall and charged with the heinous offence of selling bananas by the pound
– an imperial rather than a metric measure. He was charged, convicted, and given a criminal record. Other metric martyrs followed in his footsteps, dragged to the dock and made criminals for
giving their customers what they wanted. The pronouncement of the European Commission some years later that it had never intended to make selling bananas a criminal act only proved the
extraordinary arrogance of those silly burghers in Brussels, and did nothing to wipe away the public resentment or diminish the imagination of headline writers who strained like hounds in the
slips, ever ready to be released. Matters had been measured in pounds ever since Shylock’s time, and the call had gone out throughout the land to fight his latter-day counterparts, on the
landing grounds and the beaches, in the streets and the hills.

Other stories followed to stoke the ire. Bananas were supposed to be straight. Pints were going to be poured in litres. Eggs could no longer be sold by the dozen. So when the suggestion was made
that the little yellow-topped jars were to be outlawed by people who ate horses and fricasseed frogs, the nation leaped to its feet, demanding action.

The problem for a Prime Minister already under pressure was that there was no action he could take. When he stood at the Dispatch Box, feeling as if it were every inch a dock, there had been no
time to establish the truth of the story. His answers seemed evasive, unprepared, and wholly un-British. And when a few days later the story was finally and flatly denied, the press and the Leader
of the Opposition claimed glorious credit for forcing Brussels to change its mind. No matter how hard the Prime Minister protested, his words were drowned out by the baying of the crowd. Usher was
humiliated.

Politics and truth. Strange bedfellows, indeed.

Nobody understands politicians. A ridiculous comment, but sadly too often true. People treat their elected representatives as though they are constructed from rubber –
impervious, unfeeling and, of course, eminently flexible. They have no inkling of the physical and emotional pain that so often goes with the job. An elder statesman had once suggested that all
political careers end in failure, but he forgot to mention that before their end a politician’s days were filled with exhaustion and exasperation, too. That’s what had made
Usher’s hay fever so much worse these past years, why Gordon Brown had hurled telephones at the wall, why Churchill had drunk and Macmillan turned in a lonely bed while his wife was off
sleeping with one of his closest colleagues. It was also why Harry had trouble making his relationships work.

Jemma was waiting for him – she had half a cupboard of coat hangers now, and her own set of keys. It was well past eleven when she heard the front door bang. His nights were getting
longer, the government rushing to get its business through, and there would be no respite until the other side of the election that was still nearly three months away. As he clambered up the
stairs, a pile of mail in his hands, she was sitting at the desk in his study, in front of his laptop and printer, with sheets of paper spilling from the top of the desk and over a considerable
portion of the floor.

He kissed the back of her head, a casual, tired gesture. ‘How’s it going in business class?’

‘Slowly,’ she said. ‘What I’m getting off the Internet isn’t enough. Most of the victims were very private people, some of them seem to have no web records at
all.’

He threw the envelopes to one side and slumped into an armchair, the spring gone from his legs.

‘If we want the information—’ she began.

‘We do,’ he interrupted, almost fiercely.

‘Then I’m going to have to visit. Call on them. Every one.’

‘Can’t you use the phone?’

‘Harry, these are people who have lost loved ones in the most terrible circumstances. They’re not going to be happy about a stranger who telephones out of the blue to interrogate
them. They need a face. And I’ve only got nights, I can’t call on them during the day.’

‘Weekends?’ he suggested.

‘I was hoping to be with you. In the constituency.’

He sat, disconsolate. ‘We need this, Jem. And you’re the only one who can do it.’

She didn’t know what to say, or was it that she had too much to say? She’d wanted to be at his side throughout the campaign, caring for him, claiming him. So she said nothing,
lowered her head to hide her disappointment, went back to tapping at the keys.

Harry sighed, knew he’d hurt her, hadn’t meant to. He pulled himself from his chair. ‘Leave it now, Jem. Come to bed.’

‘I’ll be there in a few minutes,’ she said, stubborn, not looking up, hiding the tear that was trying to force its way through.

He disappeared. And by the time she crept into the bedroom considerably more than a few minutes later, he was fast asleep.