A Woman's Place (22 page)

Chadwick answered huffily, ‘But it is the
line to take
, Minister. Should you wish to change it, we have to consult the officials. That takes time.' He pointed delicately with a Waterman pen. ‘There's always the “proposed new discharge registers” and our “plans to introduce the power of supervised discharge” to mention.'

She made a note. ‘When will that be?'

‘Ah … when the parliamentary timetable allows.'

Elaine felt increasingly angry. ‘That's a useful formula, isn't it? It implies that it's the Opposition's fault if we can't make progress.'

Chadwick shrugged. ‘I'm not sure a civil servant should comment on that, Minister.'

‘And yet…' She leaned back and stared at the ceiling, then at Chadwick directly.

Across the table Anthony York sat looking faintly anxious. It would do her PPS no harm to observe how real Ministers and real civil servants dealt with each other; the day would come when he too might face the same brick wall. She continued.

‘The suggested answers are full of party-political remarks, aren't they? Swipes at the unions, criticisms of local councils controlled by our opponents, repeated references to 1979, the winter of
discontent and the last years of Labour rule. It gives the impression we're not keen on responding in a straightforward manner but only on points-scoring against the other side.'

‘That is how Ministers have preferred to deal with First Order Questions,' Fiona interposed smoothly. She and Chadwick exchanged glances.

‘Well, it makes me feel distinctly uncomfortable,' Elaine answered crossly, ‘and I'm fed up being fobbed off. For example, is it really true that the NHS now spends over one hundred million pounds
a day
, that we're treating ten million patients a year in our hospitals, and that resources have increased since 1979 by over sixty-four per cent in real terms?'

Chadwick didn't bother to check. He knew both slogans and statistics off by heart.

‘Yes, Minister.'

Elaine glared at him.

‘Then explain to me – why the hell do we still have waiting lists?'

Chadwick opened his mouth, then shut it again. Two spots of pink had appeared on Elaine's cheeks. He wondered with a suppressed sigh quite where all the frustration came from; and, with misgivings, where it might lead.

This is definitely not my cup of tea, Jim Betts decided. But it had been his scheme; and the job was infinitely preferable to doorstepping No. 10 in the rain or listening to some Minister at a press conference drone on about his latest achievement.

The maid took his damp raincoat. He smoothed down his hair and composed his features into an expression of expert interest.

His hostess as she appeared was a bit of a surprise. She was short, with a good if matronly figure: early forties, at a guess, though with the unlined face, clear eyes, sleek black hair and red marriage spot on her brow she looked a little younger. The features were delicate, the smile showed even, small white teeth. She was dressed in buttercup silk, a sari which along with all that gold jewellery must have cost a mint. She was thus a handsome, elegant woman, if a mite florid for his taste.

‘Good morning. Mrs Bhadeshia?' He had practised in the car to get it right. ‘Name's Betts. How do you do?'

‘Good morning. Please, Mr Betts, come with me.'

Pramila was horribly nervous. She pulled at her sari and wondered if she had overdone it for a gloomy English morning. On the other hand her luck had obviously turned. She could hardly believe it: a national newspaper, the
Globe
, wanted to write a major feature about her home. Something different, an exotic mixture of east and west, traditional and modern, they'd said. Time a prominent Asian family was highlighted, but it would be done with taste and modesty. Pramila had frowned slightly at the latter point.

The article was to be spread over two pages. Her own participation, in several outfits, was required, for was she not becoming one of the country's best-known hostesses? The voice on the phone proposed a photo-spread like those in
Hello
!
magazine. Indeed, it was highly likely that, once the
Globe
's piece (which would be an exclusive) had appeared
Hello
!
would call wanting their own version. That settled it: any restraints in Pramila's mind had vanished.

First, hospitality. Pramila led her guest into the conservatory. She had expected somebody more prepossessing, but it was her task to impress him, not vice versa. She prayed the maid would serve the coffee without a spill and that her mother would remain firmly out of sight.

‘It is a delight to welcome you here,' she said brightly.

Betts placed his notebook on the glass-topped coffee table and gazed round. The airy room was crammed with cane furniture and white Clarence House fabrics. He doubted that children ever played in the room, though the family could afford an army of cleaners. Carefully he sipped from a
Royal Doulton cup and hoped his shoes had not dirtied the pale cream carpet.

Before he could respond, the doorbell rang. Pramila sprang up, hands fluttering. ‘The photographer! Already!'

Within a few moments, as Pramila posed with cup and silver coffee-pot in hand, then draped herself on the reproduction chaise-longue in another room and lingered by the velvet curtains and the Directoire mirror in the hall, it was clear that she at least was in her element. The photographer was a grey-haired man with big hands which exchanged cameras and lenses deftly as if they were old friends. Betts followed unobtrusively, faintly attracted by the swish of silk against brown skin, and scribbled whenever a particularly useful remark fell from the lady's lips.

‘Yes, I chose everything myself – with help from Harrods, of course,' she told him in answer to a question. ‘I subscribe to the
Architectural Digest
– do you know it? It is full of such good ideas. This room, for example, is taken from the fashion designer Marc Bohan's lovely home in France. I adore the contrast between red velvet and the leopard-skin fabric, don't you?'

The photographer made supportive noises. His taste was for simple Habitat, when he could afford it.

It was the turn of a white satin evening dress, its bodice encrusted with beads, with two huge pendant earrings to match. The glorious shimmering whiteness of it, tight at her waist, made Pramila's bosom swell with pride. With a deep breath she paused as instructed on the bottom step of the curving staircase, one hand on the gilded banister, the other sweeping her skirts behind her. Head held high she smiled radiantly as if about to greet guests.

That she should be the model for other women! Dressed thus, she was beautiful, a Soraya, a Shakira Caine; seen as such not only by her husband but soon by the nation. Her eyes fell on the scruffy journalist, who was licking his lips as he watched. ‘Great, Mrs B,' he murmured in a nasal accent she could not place. Surely he was not the
Globe
's society reporter? Embarrassed, she glanced away, until the photographer complained and coaxed her back.

‘Right! Got enough down here. Upstairs all tidy?' The photographer handed Betts his
light-meter
, reflector and spare film. Pramila began to lead them up.

On the landing panic suddenly assailed her. Was it acceptable to admit two men to her marital bedroom – and that its secrets should be revealed? Indeed, should she even enter it with these men without a chaperon? The photographer was already inside fixing up his lights. It was not too late to fetch her mother.

Mother would not allow
it
. But the room had been newly decorated. The four poster was oak, a Tudor reproduction. The whole theme was English country style by Dorma Vymura: flowers everywhere – linen, carpet, rugs, wallpaper, ceiling, dado, hangings, cushions, complemented by overfull peonies in an elaborate vase and rose-scented pomanders. Jayanti didn't like it, but then he never claimed to have taste.

‘Need you in a nightie for this one,' the photographer suggested. His manner was quick and professional. ‘Got anything really glamorous?'

Pramila blushed, hesitated, closed the door and headed for a wardrobe. Her favourite feather-trimmed Dior négligée and wrap were perfect, she knew. Then she stopped. It was one thing to have her decor displayed for the world to admire. Her own person was a different matter. She returned slowly to the room, still in the white evening dress, eyes downcast.

‘No, I cannot do that. To be in night garments on a bed – no.'

‘Paula Yates does it all the time, Mrs B,' the journalist wheedled.

‘She may do. I can't. I am a married woman, a respectable person.'

The photographer beckoned Betts into a corner. A whispered discussion ensued. The photographer shrugged. Then the two returned to Pramila, who was beginning to bite her lip and look upset.

‘It's all right, Mrs B, you pose in whatever you like,' said Betts soothingly. ‘You got some lovely clothes. How about a cocktail dress – a short, western-style one? Then you can show us your furnishings in 'ere. That do?'

Honour satisfied, in a few moments she emerged from the dressing room in a royal-blue velvet shift and high-heeled shoes, to the contented nods of the photographer. Betts appraised her frankly and grinned, then stared out of the window. Shyly, she allowed herself to be positioned close to the flounces and frills of the bed.

Flash! Her head was beginning to spin. ‘A big smile, now,' the photographer asked. ‘Lean back … a little more – that's it. Arch your back. Point your toes – yes, we'd like to see your … feet.
Very
nice.' He had managed to stop himself saying ‘legs'.

Suddenly it was over. Betts had said little but had taken lots of notes. He appeared to have forgotten her full name completely. As the cameraman packed up, Pramila retreated and dressed hurriedly in slacks and a sweater; redoing the sari would have taken ages. The two men refused lunch and seemed anxious to get on their way.

‘Do you have any idea when the item will appear?'

Betts shook his head. ‘Not decided yet,' he answered truthfully. ‘Depends how the photos come out, Mrs B. We'd still like some pictures of your husband in his office as a contrast. Did you manage to persuade him yet?'

Pramila sighed. ‘I will, don't worry.'

She stood in the doorway and waved them off. It had been a success, hadn't it? Everything had been in place, immaculate, opulent, impressive; her clothes and figure were superb and would excite envy. So why, as she watched the
Globe
's representatives drive away, did she have such a dreadful sense of foreboding?

‘Position four!'

‘
Hai
!
Hai
!' As they lunged and leapt, Karen and her fellow pugilists expelled their breath in the regulation manner, so that the entire hall seemed filled with manic piston-driven steam-engines. The effect was splendidly menacing. The narrow eyes of their teacher, a muscular Korean whose two stripes on jacket and trousers indicated his rank, darted from one white-jacketed group to another.

‘Ouch!' For a moment Karen had lost concentration and moved too close to her sparring partner. The tip of the other girl's toe glanced against her head and knocked her sideways. She flopped to the floor, more surprised than hurt.

‘Position five!'

Rubbing her ear ruefully, Karen jumped to her feet. With a twitch she set her jacket straight, hitched up her trousers, pulled tight the tie around her waist and began the new exercise. She was nowhere near gaining even a single stripe, not when such an easy point could be scored against her; but she was not about to admit defeat. An hour of Tai-kwondo twice a week had firmed all her muscles and made her lithe and supple. Although her signature was appended to the declaration required by both the governing body of the discipline and the sports centre promising never to use these newly acquired skills in anger, it was also a comfort to know that in an emergency she could look after herself.

All too soon the session was over. The participants, mostly youths and men but with a sprinkling of girls, scrambled to their feet and stood row by row, panting and red-faced. On command arms were raised to the heavens, fingers and thumbs forming an O. Their activity was but a service to the gods. Then bare heels came together, hands to the sides, and a short bow was offered to the master, whose grunt and bobbed head indicated approval. 

An hour later, showered and changed, Karen bounced happily into the kitchen of the Battersea house, her carrier bag of dirty laundry under her arm, and headed for the washing machine. She felt tired and a bit sore but exhilarated. In other parts of the house her fellow residents were immediately aware of her arrival as the door banged and the machine began to churn.

Anthony was seated upstairs at his desk, trying to gain familiarity with every dot and comma of the bull points for First Order Questions. He had reminded Fred and other supporters to be on duty, on time, the next afternoon. Conscience demanded that he read through the material once more and commit as much as possible to memory.

He could hear Karen singing a pop song; he smiled and allowed himself to be distracted. How much more cheerful she made the place. How much better to have a girl in the house than men only, which would have produced a much duller atmosphere. But one could have too much of a good thing.
Two
girls would have been too many; together they'd have felt an obligation to organise everything, each vying with the other. Karen seemed content as the sole female. And because of her mother she knew the ropes politically, better, in some respects, than he and Fred did. Pretty to look at, too, and kept herself well, so that it was a repeated pleasure to find her seated opposite at the breakfast table and innocently pouring him a coffee. His skin tickled at the thought of her boyish short haircut, her cotton T-shirt and the bare neck it revealed.