A Woman's Place (4 page)

A maiden speech was a dramatic event – a great milestone in a politician's life, and a signpost to the future. The disappointment he felt in his own performance, therefore, was all the more acute. If ever he were to rise to great heights, today's amateurish phrases and ill-formed philosophy would be examined intently for clues as to his judgement, character and potential.

His parents, the editor of the local paper, the regional radio station – all would be waiting to hear from him. They would be at least curious, at best excited and proud. Perhaps he could buy a video of his performance, but doubted if he could bear to watch himself and learn, as he had been advised to do. The thought of being brought face to face with his own inadequacies made him cringe.

He wished profoundly he had done it better.

Edward Bampton pushed aside the ministerial red box and set himself to brood. Of course he ought to
be grateful; the reshuffle could as easily have resulted in his being booted out. But the fact was he was bored and longed for a change. The Home Office job looked important on paper, gave him considerable clout in the government hierarchy and for anyone with a smidgen of interest in the criminal justice system would have been much prized. Indeed, there had been adverse comment when he, a non-lawyer, had been appointed to it three years before. Most of the barristers and solicitors who littered the Tory benches would have given their eye teeth to have spent the last hour with the set of ministerial files currently on his desk.

Yet for Bampton the adjournment debates he had to answer, the clauses he had to take through standing committees, the pointless criticism from irate backbenchers about the latest crime figures, the useless knowledge he had acquired on appeals and rights to silence, the endless decisions on immigration cases, any one of which made a lifetime's difference to an entire family, were insufficient. Faced by senior civil servants who were acknowledged international experts on all these subjects, he frequently felt out of place. The moment to complain to the whips had passed but his gut reaction was still deep impatience.

A soft tap came at the door; it opened to reveal Derek Harrison, tall and saturnine, standing hesitantly on the threshold.

Like most ministers above the lowest rank, Bampton was entitled to a bag-carrier, a ‘gofer' and general factotum. In true Westminster tradition the more lowly the post – and this one was unpaid – the grander the title. So Harrison was his Parliamentary Private Secretary, or PPS. Technically it was the first rung on the ministerial ladder; when a PPS was caught misbehaving his resignation would be reported as that of ‘a member of the government'. The PPS was part of the ministerial team and attended meetings, other than the most confidential or high-powered, alongside his master. Often, however, the task boiled down to pouring the drinks and listening hard, then flattering his boss in the post-mortem afterwards.

Another part of the job involved the assiduous planting of useful questions with even more helpful supplementaries on ambitious backbenchers who aspired to become PPSs in their turn. On occasion a PPS might find himself mouthing his master's speech before a puzzled or irritated outside audience as he attempted to explain that due to unforeseen circumstances they would have to put up with him instead. That could be a neat opportunity in the right hands; but in the main the PPS acted as eyes and ears of his boss around Westminster, and as friend and confidant.

‘I'm sorry – you're busy.' Harrison gestured at the still open box, its gold letters on red leather gleaming in the lamplight. ‘Shall I come back later?'

‘No, I'm done.' That wasn't strictly true but Bampton had had enough. ‘Fancy a pint?'

‘Sure.'

The boxes were locked and stacked on the desk. It was safe to leave them there; for the office, on the upper ministerial corridor, was guarded by police night and day.

The pair headed for the Kremlin, officially called the Strangers' Bar, down at Terrace level. Outside was windswept and damp, a typical English evening, but inside the place was smoky and packed.

Derek Harrison wrinkled his nose. His own preference would have been a quick dash across the road to the St Stephen's Club. Its elegant white interior, looking out towards St James's Park, was graced by many distinguished names from the party, exactly the sort an up-and-coming chap ought to know. The previous year it had been full of disgruntled ex-MEPs who had lost their seats; they tended to drown their sorrows in Slivovitz and Calvados to show off, but their conversation, peppered with references to Leipzig and Paris, intrigued and attracted Harrison. There would be a few businessmen, something in the City or doing well in imports. Their casual attitude to fifty-pound notes fascinated him most of all.

The Kremlin was buzzing as Members and hangers-on absorbed the implications of the
reshuffle. The rumour factory had been so vigorous that the Prime Minister had decided to go ahead a day or two early. A copy of the Downing Street press notice lay soggy with beer froth on the bar and was consulted by all who passed.

Harrison lost sight of Bampton for a moment and found himself in a group of both Labour and Tory Members. He was instantly on his guard.

‘I'd have thought he'd have been more radical.' Keith Quin lifted his pint glass, took a long swallow and smacked his lips ruminatively. ‘Settled a few scores and that. After calling them
right-wingers
“bastards”, you'd have thought he'd have got rid of a few. Instead he's put Hamilton in the Cabinet and promoted Lady Olga Maitland. She may have the biggest majority in the Commons now, but the thought of her in your whips' office…!'

Quin was trying to impress two new MPs, Harrison noted, both Conservatives. Fred Laidlaw, a half-pint of lager in his hand, was looking somewhat dazed: at a guess it was close to his bedtime. Anthony York, however, nursed a bitter lemon, which took some courage in this place. York had made his maiden speech. He was now one of the crowd and permitted such a modest eccentricity. Both newcomers, hesitant about concurring with their companion but unsure how to respond otherwise, turned in relief to Harrison.

The older man responded smoothly. ‘On the contrary. The Prime Minister boxes clever with those he can't count on. That's why he's still on top despite all the criticism. He works on the Lyndon Johnson principle: “Better to have the beggar on the inside pissing out than on the outside pissing in.”' The crudity made his listeners snicker.

Bampton motioned to Harrison from the other side of the bar. Obediently he detached himself and moved over, exchanging pleasantries on the way with both Labour and Conservative MPs. He made mental notes of several new faces, male and female, but he was pretty sure that the attractive fair-haired girl in a short skirt that revealed smooth thighs, perched on a bar-stool talking animatedly to Michael Brown, the victor at Brigg and Scunthorpe, was not an MP. She was pretty, and as she caught his eye smiled at him. He hesitated in passing; then an impatient look on Bampton's face forced him to press on.

‘You keep your eyes to yourself,' Bampton chided as soon as they were together. ‘I saw you give that lass the once-over. Trouble, that's all they are.'

‘Just because you're happily married, Ted, doesn't mean that the rest of us are suited to monogamy.' Harrison was not angry; his sex-life was the subject of frequent gossip to which he was utterly impervious. ‘As a confirmed bachelor, I have to spread it around a bit or it'll atrophy. Use it or lose it. Know what I mean?'

Bampton grunted. Despite his early background in the building trade he did not enjoy sexual banter. He had fallen for a woman only once, nearly thirty years before, courted her with
old-fashioned
charm, roses and chocolates and cards, married her on his twenty-third birthday and been faithful to her ever since. Their two daughters were the spitting image of their mother, large, gentle and humorous. He hoped they might some day marry men like himself and make them happy.

‘Enough of that. What did you think of the reshuffle?'

Harrison made noncommittal noises.

‘Come on, Derek. You must have been expecting a move. You've been my PPS three years now, ever since I got this job. You did well, promoted so quickly in your first Parliament, but you mustn't get stuck now. I put in a good word for you, too. You should have been made up. Parliamentary Under-Secretary of State for National Heritage, something like that.'

Once again the grandeur of the title served to obscure the insignificance of the task, but all political life, Bampton knew, was what you made of it. Even as junior Minister in a low-grade department with a minute budget, a skilled and determined operator could make a name for himself. The description fitted Harrison perfectly; in fact, it would do for them both.

‘The Prime Minister didn't have room for us this time,' Harrison suggested silkily. The Kremlin, he realised, had its advantages. The hubbub meant that private intrigues couldn't be overheard. The two men bent their heads together.

‘Yeah, well, he may find there isn't much more room for
him
,' Bampton muttered darkly. ‘There's talk, Derek. He can be challenged any time. When the moment comes we need to be ready.'

‘You're not thinking…?'

‘No, no.
I'm
not going to put up against him. But some fool will, and might get a surprisingly high vote. The PM will need to be warned. It gets really exciting if – and when – he stands down. He'll have to, sooner or later. Then the question is, which camp are we in? Whose wagon do we hitch ourselves to? If we get it wrong, we're out, but then that can happen any time anyway. If you don't have the favour of the boss you're nowhere. If we back the right horse, that's different – you'll be in, Derek, and I'll be tucking my little legs under that Cabinet table as President of the Board of Trade, where I belong.'

Neither was troubled by the mixed metaphors. To both men, vivid use of pictorial language, even if the pictures failed to follow on, was competent political style. And a cliché was a recognisable term used (or over-used) only by the Opposition.

‘Do you have a view of whom we should back?' Harrison had his own preferences, but Bampton had been in politics far longer.

‘Well, let's see. Who is there? Ken Clarke will try and he must be the favourite. He wants it, he's keen and competent, and marginally less abrasive than he used to be. Portillo is the coming man, of course. Still a bit young and inexperienced, to my mind, and he's no friend of the likes of us. We don't make enough speeches about the immorality of public benefits for his taste. Pity about Michael Howard, but they simply won't have him because he's Jewish. You'd think he'd have spotted that a long time ago. Then there's Roger Dickson.'

Derek cradled his glass of white wine. It was almost empty, but he did not want to interrupt the exchange, especially as it was his turn to buy a round. ‘You sound as if you've made up your mind, Ted.'

‘Well – I like Dickson, to tell you the truth. He's a fresher face than our Kenneth, and in many ways more suited to the nineties. Ken's a grand chap with a fine record, but he often talks as if it's still the nineteen-fifties. He gets under the skin of my daughters, who tell me he's too old-fashioned and macho for their taste. I can't quite see it. On the other hand they thoroughly approve of Dickson and say half the nation will fall in love with him – the feminine half, I hasten to add. Since women make up the majority of the electorate that can't be bad.'

‘But what does he stand for?'

‘Who knows … does it matter any more? The admen will decide. It's just that once they start on Roger Dickson they'll have plenty of high-quality material to work on. I reckon he's our man, and I'm going to start hinting so wherever I can.'

Harrison shrugged slightly and nodded; the inconclusive, insubstantial discussion matched his own feelings entirely. ‘Time for another?' He pointed at his own empty glass.

Bampton downed the dregs of his beer and shook his head. ‘No, I'm off home. Keep the old lady happy. See you tomorrow.'

Harrison watched him move across the room, greeting and chatting on the way, and out through the swing doors. Then he picked up both glasses and headed for the bar, where he inserted himself neatly between Michael Brown and his young lady companion. She turned and smiled at him again. Her face was oval, the skin light and smooth, the eyes blue and neatly made-up. Definitely worth further acquaintance.

‘Now, Michael. What have we here? Don't tell me you're only interested in this young lady's political education. May I introduce myself? My name is Derek Harrison…'

‘Welcome to the United Kingdom, Mr President. We hope you will have a most successful visit.'

‘Yes, indeed. We are looking for improved relationships with your country. We need aid, and we are hoping for inward investment…'

President Mangaluso caught the bored expression on the Duke's face and realised that he was talking to the wrong person. Negotiations about money were not these days to be done with minor royalty but would have to wait until the meeting at the Foreign Office the next day. He pulled his robes around him in embarrassment and shivered; he wondered if the diminutive baroness now introducing herself as a ‘lord in waiting', apparently a representative of the government, spent all her time meeting foreign dignitaries on chilly evenings at Victoria Station. She did not seem a very important person. He began to feel mildly irritated, then checked himself. Beggars couldn't be choosers.

Graciously the Duke urged him along the platform towards the waiting Rolls. A few flash bulbs popped; a straggling group of fellow countrymen waved tiny flags. He shook hands, grateful for the friendly faces.

‘You should be ashamed to come here,' a voice growled.