A Woman's Place (20 page)

‘This is the main dining room for our guests in the Commons,' he explained. ‘The Members' Dining Room is next door and we get exactly the same food. There's a very smart a la carte restaurant, the Churchill Room, but strictly speaking that's in the House of Lords. And a café downstairs which is a bit sausage-and-mashy, or one of the private dining rooms where you wouldn't see anybody. I thought you'd prefer this.'

‘It's splendid, Anthony.'

His mother was trying not to stare at nearby tables in an effort to spot famous faces. Anthony took pity. ‘In the corner, the bald man is Sir Bowen Wells – a delightful chap, and one of the better whips. That's Paddy Ashdown just behind you, back from the Balkans once again. The lady opposite's Mo Mowlam, Labour front-bench spokesperson on something or other: she's a capable woman, but when she started wearing designer suits her party workers complained, so she's back to Islington grunge, as you can see.'

This was the Commons style into which Anthony had slipped without complaint; almost automatically, he would find something positive to say about a fellow party member and an equally disparaging remark, deserved or not, about an opponent. The protective, identifying garment of party colour already enveloped him.

Heads bent to examine the menu. Mrs York, mindful of her struggle in Harvey Nichols with a size 14 skirt, chose grilled sole, while her husband, after a day's ferrying her around London, plumped for lamb cutlets. To avoid any hint of criticism of their taste, as he had done all his life, Anthony followed his father. A dilemma over wine was avoided by a glass of house white for his mother and a bottle of Mouton-Cadet for the men. He wished fleetingly that his family could be more adventurous.

The wine and starters arrived quickly; the waiter left them to it. The running three-line whip which had confined many Members to the House made it a busy evening. ‘I need a clear head because I have to go and see my Minister at ten,' Anthony remarked as he poured himself half a glass.

‘Goodness!' Mrs York exclaimed, isn't that a bit late? You're not in any trouble, Anthony, are you?'

‘Of course not. That is normal practice here. In fact it'll be about twenty past ten, after the last vote. We have a breakfast meeting at eight with the pharmaceutical industry tomorrow morning and he wants to brief me – it's Derek Harrison.'

Anthony was to discover that Derek would often use the late hours to conduct ministerial business. For the rest of the day, and on lighter-whipped nights, he continued to find better uses for his time.

The fish arrived; his mother examined it with her fork, removed the feather of fennel and began to eat delicately, wary of bones. His father struggled for a while with the over-cooked lamb chops, then gave up and concentrated on his potatoes. The old man's routine had been disrupted. A night at a hotel was another obscure hurdle to be negotiated; it would be another day, after an hour or two back in the office and then blessedly
home,
before his equanimity would be restored.

Watching his father's gloomy expression while still trying desperately to charm both parents, Anthony silently regretted the invitation.

Mr York wiped his mouth with the napkin, folded it on the table, finished his wine and sat up. His long bony face, mouth set in a thin, disciplined line, told of Nonconformist antecedents embroiled with the work ethic, of a half-forgotten Protestantism too rigid and stilted for comfort, long since intertwined with a preference for strong leadership, quiet patriotism and public morality. He cleared his throat.

‘Your mother and I would like you to know how proud we are of you, Anthony. You and your sister. You particularly have never let us down. We have set the highest standards for our children, as you know. Our hopes have been amply fulfilled.'

Anthony gruffly muttered his thanks, but the bleak formality of the remarks chilled him. Did all families speak to each other like that? Across the room conversation was more animated and natural; laughter came in bursts from the table behind him. The Battersea house was full of humour, teasing, genuine affection. By contrast, how seldom he talked to the two strangers who were his guests. He would as little think of confiding in them as in the waiter.

His mother would be shocked and frightened to know that the dreams had returned not only on the one occasion at Christmas but more frequently since. He had never mentioned them to his father, though he suspected his mother might have done so. There was no point in discussing the issue: he was not going through that psychiatrist business ever again. Nobody would broach the subject if he didn't, and especially not in this glittering place, where the objective was to celebrate an only son's dazzling success.

Had his parents ever said ‘I love you' each to the other? He must suppose so; that was a romantic generation, brought up on
Brief Encounter
, Bogart and Bacall. Yet he could not recall a moment when either had ever uttered the words to him, nor to his sister, and he had never put the question. Come to that, he had never spoken to another human being of love, ever.

Anthony folded his napkin exactly the same way as his father and called for the bill. He wondered if that stiff little speech meant he was at last worthy of their love, or whatever they might call it.

‘Home, Sheila, please – and if I fall asleep and start to snore, kindly ignore me.'

The plump driver in the blue uniform nodded into her rear-view mirror. Mrs Stalker looked washed out. It must have been a tough week.

‘Got anything nice planned for the weekend?' Sheila did not add ‘Minister'. Elaine did not stand on ceremony.

The blue Rover car, polished and valeted, would always be at the kerbside for the first appointment in the morning and last thing at night. The drivers of the government car service saw and heard everything, far more than the whips. The unsung heroes of Whitehall who worked longer hours
than anyone else – they saw their masters under the most extreme pressure, in tears after a row, or late for
Panorama
or a three-line vote, and in the most relaxed circumstances – splayed out, ties and flies unbuttoned, floating groggily home, incapable of putting two civil or coherent words together, let alone driving.

Elaine had asked for a woman driver on principle, knowing that the men got the plum jobs and most of the overtime. In the months since she had become a Minister she had cautiously begun to make friends with the down-to-earth Sheila, whose industry and good humour she admired.

‘Not too bad. I have an advice bureau, then a careers fair at the local college and a flower festival at church, but after that I'm free. And I'm invited out to dinner.'

Something about the blush on her employer's cheeks, the dimpled smile, gave Sheila the clue. ‘Nice, is he?'

‘Lord, Sheila, is it that obvious? How do you know it isn't my local Rotary?'

Both laughed, a shared conspiracy of women past the first bloom of youth but not yet ready to settle for middle age.

‘You married, Sheila?'

‘Sort of. About thirty years since our wedding day. My old man's had a stroke. Lost his speech, and needs constant looking after. So he went back to live with his mum.'

The tragedy in the tale made Elaine catch her breath. ‘Was that your choice?' she asked gently. The older woman shrugged but her expression in the mirror was sad, ‘If I'd stayed home, given up my job, we'd have been penniless, and I'd probably have done away with him sooner or later, or myself. This way, at least he's well cared for.'

‘But not much home life for you, after long days ferrying me around whatever the weather.'

Sheila's eyes twinkled. ‘Look at it this way. If I had my old man the way he used to be, all warm and waiting for me, I wouldn't have taken this job, now would I?'

The miles slid past as night fell; Elaine kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs out on the back seat, her coat loosely covering her knees. Garish yellow motorway lights flashed rhythmically overhead until the urban areas fell behind and darkness enfolded them. The quiet movement, the soft purr of the engine created a cocoon of sanctuary and trust. Elaine stirred.

‘Don't you miss the sex, Sheila?'

The grey-haired driver pondered. Male Ministers and drivers shared confidences – often they saw more of each other than of their spouses. Her Minister looked wistful.

‘You can answer that for yourself, at a guess. You're on your own, aren't you? Don't you miss it? Don't we all?'

Damn cookery books. Damn Delia Smith. Damn female bookshop assistants who goggled when a male customer asked for culinary guidance. All he had wanted was a few fresh ideas: the best the shelves had been able to offer was a collection of dinner party recipes from the
Australian Women's
Weekly
under the excruciating title
Time for Romance.

The Aussies' idea of romance, George had decided crossly, was not quite right. The suggested gazpacho with avocado in crouton baskets was all very well, but the thick chunks of bread had to be deep-fried, with no guarantee that the cold soup wouldn't seep through and make a sticky puddle. Nor did he feel that chicken, even dressed up with mushroom and thyme sauce, was in the least romantic – whichever way you looked at it, it was still chicken. He guessed Elaine would see quite enough of that.

In the end he had settled on something clean and sweet and simple: butterfly lamb, marinaded overnight in olive oil and lemon juice with ten crushed cloves of garlic and fresh rosemary and Dijon mustard – the boned joint would take only twenty minutes in the oven. Polenta triangles were fun and easy to do and the green salad, with those small firm apricots from South Africa he'd found in
Sainsbury's, would make a colourful contrast to the meat.

The pudding was crucial. How might he tempt a woman known to be careful with her figure, but not have to disappear to the kitchen to cook just as he wanted to pour her another glass of wine and edge the conversation towards intimacy? Then he found it and set to with a will.

As he measured and poured, beat and rolled, and wrinkled his nose at the evocative aroma of coffee and chocolate, George hummed cheerfully. He smiled at his own absorption. It gave him the greatest enjoyment to prepare this meal for a beautiful woman, as an elaborate prelude to bed, if he handled matters well. The fact that in a traditional world the lady would be the cook and he the guest had not escaped him. It was a long time, he reflected, since he had so looked forward to sharing the outcome of his labours and imagination. A gift, a bonding, a pleasure.

He had wrestled also with the choice of starter. Delia had won, though the wild mushroom and walnut soup took some finding, tucked away in her ‘Vegetarian Christmas' section. Why should the vegetarians get the best recipes? Again he could make it ahead of time and thus spend the evening not over the stove but mostly at the table, with Elaine. All he would need to do apart from reheating it was to add a few slices of fresh open-cap mushroom and a quick stir of cream, dry sherry and lemon juice. Perfect.

The table was laid; on second thoughts, George removed the silver candlestick and replaced the pink bud roses with white narcissi from the garden, whose fragrance filled the room. The roses could go upstairs. It would not do to be too elaborate – Elaine probably had enough of smart dinners, especially as she so often had to sing for her supper.

He examined himself in the mirror. The jacket was best left over a chair. The dark slacks, plain shirt and simple tie were exactly right. George would not have admitted to a shred of vanity but, as he twisted about, his appearance passed muster with him.

He checked the clock; he walked into the kitchen, stirred the soup once more, ensured the oven was hot, basted the glistening lamb, rearranged the bread rolls, fiddled with the salad. She was not late, not yet. But he wanted her to come: he was on his marks.

She was worth it. Had she been an ordinary woman he would not have been so intrigued by her. For a moment, cautiously, he allowed himself the unaccustomed danger of examining how he felt about her. Some of her appeal was obvious. She was fun to be with, and endlessly interesting; her conversation brought the newspaper headlines alive. That was partly whoshe was, of course. The slant of insider information she offered, the ‘true story', could hold him on the edge of his seat, so that tea at the Ritz or a brief encounter at an official reception, which would not lead to more personal contact there and then, were joys which left him longing for the next time.

So was he in love with her? George pulled out a chair and sat down, elbows on the table, hands folded under his chin. For his generation love meant marriage, but George equated marriage with misunderstanding and lost hopes and misery, all to be avoided. His parents had split up when he was young. His mother, embittered, had lavished her love on her dogs and garden, and sent away to school a lonely boy for whom she was a distant shadow. His own marriage seemed to have followed a similar pattern. When Margaret announced she was leaving him for someone else there had been little ill-feeling, if only because hardly any emotion had been invested from the start by either party. Margaret had not been a friend as his male acquaintances were. Once her sexual interest, frustrated by his frequent absences, was drawn elsewhere, no reason compelled them to stay together. Still, it left him with an unalloyed sense of regret and of failure. He suspected that Mrs Stalker, relatively recently divorced, would understand entirely.

The doorbell
. My God, he'd forgotten to put the wine in the fridge – he jumped up, and the chair went crashing over. He bent to retrieve it and banged his head on the table corner. He leapt to the door as Elaine raised her hand again to the bellpush.

The two stood on the doorstep, mouths open: ‘Oh! I thought maybe –'

‘Sorry! I was just –'