A Woman's Place (44 page)

In a few moments the three stood in the hallway, removing coats and shuffling their feet. No words were spoken. With a look of reproach his mother handed him a pile of messages in her meticulous handwriting: she had not known to take the phone off the hook. Now it began to ring shrilly. Anthony suddenly felt exhausted, picked up his bag and headed for his room.

‘You all right, Elaine?'

‘Oh, Betty. Thanks for calling. Yes, I'm OK. For once it's not my name in the papers.'

‘I feel sorry for the poor bastard. Whatever he's done, trial by press is far worse.'

Elaine agreed wholeheartedly. Should she ever face a similar inquisition, Betty Horrocks as chairman of her Conservative Association would be the first person approached for a comment. The wealthy widow held a place both of authority and of affection in Elaine's life. As George's sister-
in-law
she was almost family, though in a crisis Betty would revert to her public role as Elaine's most prominent supporter. Both sensed that this phone call could be a kind of rehearsal, a search for the right form of words. Both hoped the practice would never be needed.

‘He was shaping up to be a very good Minister,' said Elaine. ‘It's such a shame. Terrible timing too.'

Betty grunted. ‘There's never a good time. Will you be affected?'

‘Well – it looks as if the post may be left vacant for a while. No appointment's been made. We've no legislation coming up this year and the budgets are under control. So it may be just me and Ted working together.'

‘That good news or bad?'

Elaine considered. ‘Good, in that I'll carry more responsibility. Bad, in that I'll have more work to do! But I can have a new PPS. It's my choice and I need someone I like and trust. I think I'll ask Fred Laidlaw to do it. He's a decent lad, keen and capable but with a lot to learn.'

‘He's not gay, too, is he, Elaine? I don't want to sound suspicious, but –'

Elaine laughed heartily. ‘Oh, no, Betty. Fred's not gay.'

A couple of weeks passed; press interest waned. Anthony found he could breathe more easily, provided he kept to the house and garden. He had tried a walk further afield but had been startled by a cameraman who jumped at him out of nowhere. The postwoman scuttled up the path, shoved dozens of letters scrappily through the box and pushed off again as fast as her legs could carry her. Many of the missives were written on green paper, the handwriting ill formed and ignorant. Anthony threw them unread into the fire.

A former university woman acquaintance was reported in the
Sunday Sport
as saying he was sexually inexperienced and incompetent. He could barely remember her and wondered how much she had been paid to utter the words put into her mouth. His friends seemed to have gone to ground except for Lachlan, who, badgered by Betts, had angrily informed the world that his cousin was a far better man than any of his detractors. Fred had kept his head down, no doubt embarrassed at his unexpected good fortune, which Anthony did not begrudge him. Nobody else had a word to say in his defence.

Sir John had arrived in a limousine, entered the hallway ponderously and mumbled apologies to Mrs York, like a doctor at a house where a patient had died. All was well for the forthcoming court appearance. It would be brief. A conditional discharge, a fine, damages were mentioned. The young man, Mr Rosenberg, had recovered and was trying to persuade the police not to press charges: it was of course too late for that, but his attitude would count. Indeed, he was willing to come privately and talk, if that would help. Chastened by such forgiveness Anthony shook his head.

Yet he absolutely did not want to appear in court. The formality and inevitability of the process appalled him. To hear the charges read out, the bald description of what had taken place, would raise once again the questions he had so far successfully evaded. How could he face with equanimity those accusers – the beard and spectacles, the burly policeman – and the grey figure with the mauve badge, seated like a ghost in the public gallery? And, worse, the media, the commentators, the gay campaigners harrying him to come out – each demanded of him something he could not give: an account of himself which made sense.

Then there was his own Conservative Association. Reassured by his mother that Mr York was unwell and could not appear for a while, the officers had postponed the post-mortem until the day after sentence. He would then be obliged to respond. It would be like a second trial, but without the dry ritual of the criminal court. At the executive committee meeting, if strong words were needed they would be said. His dishonour would be dissected in minute detail. He wondered if there was some way he might refuse to come, then realised that such discourtesy would simply compound his crime in their eyes. He had no choice, and no words to put them off. His fate would be in their hands.

Yet he had no fight with them; indeed, he hardly knew them. He hardly knew anybody. Not that he wanted to talk. On the contrary. In the weeks since the events his mind had been like a great lake, with nothing as far as the eye could see, no distinguishing feature, the surface by turns black or purple or green but entirely murky and impenetrable. He preferred to keep it that way. The only possibility of calm lay in floating motionless on the surface and resolutely refusing conscious thought.

But the court case entailed his emergence in public once more. There was no way it could be postponed. He would become a public victim all over again – fresh meat to be thrown to the hounds. The sound of weeping began to hum inside his head, as it had at Battersea when the tension had begun to mount, when Karen had found him. As the days passed Anthony found himself increasingly agitated. It was not to be faced. It was not.

He had taken several tablets but their effect was transitory. He slept fitfully and when he awoke it was dark and quiet. He could not remember dreaming, but this time he found himself not in the
wind-swept
lane nor on the Heath as he had feared but in his own room. It was not raining, nor windy. The silence seemed almost welcoming. The whimpers in his head were still there but fainter. His mind was clear, peaceful.

He rose, pulled on a dressing gown and went over to the bedroom window. Outside all was still. The sky was free of clouds. A bright half-moon cast shadows as his eyes adjusted. The black silhouettes of trees bowed gracefully like old friends.

He ought to take another pill and go back to bed. With a glass of whisky – that would make the drug work more quickly. The alcohol was downstairs. His mother would not allow him to carry a bottle to his bedroom: to her, imbibing in company was just about acceptable but to drink alone in his current state of mind would be dangerous.

He tiptoed down the stairs, avoiding the step which squeaked, entered the shrouded drawing room, found the cupboard without turning on the light and poured himself a finger of spirits. His nocturnal wanderings amused him. Deceiving his mother was a game. That was foolish: nothing that had occurred had been her fault. He drained the glass and poured another, larger this time.

The tension in the house was dreadful; his parents' unhappy faces oppressed him deeply. It was obvious he could not stay with them much longer. His only other home was in Battersea and that would mean a return to London, to neighbours who would stare and murmur, or not know what to say to him. What could he do? Where could he go? The scenes in the train and on the station haunted him. He gripped the glass to stop himself trembling, then examined his fingers with curiosity, turning his hand this way and that. The reporter had been right: he had wanted to lash out, longed to see another face crumple beneath his fist. Was that to be his response from here onwards – violence, instead of the carefully modulated argument which had been his stock in trade? Whom would he hit next? A constituent? A man in the pub? His father?

A statement would have to be crafted soon ready for the court. Why had he done it? The question had been put to him so many times but he was still at a loss to answer. How could he explain that he'd been fighting off ghosts? They'd think he was mad. Perhaps he was.

The whisky was soothing and seemed to guarantee that the horrors could be kept at bay. The noise in his head was no louder. He poured another drink and began to pace the room. One
glass-fronted
cupboard held books, another pieces of his mother's Crown Derby, a third his father's fishing trophies. Anthony half smiled as he peered at the medals and cups. As a small boy he had sat on the river bank and watched in admiration as his father fiddled with lines, flies and bait, then rose, cast and settled down to wait patiently for hours on end. The water was deep down by the weir. His memory told him vaguely that there had been some conversation between them, desultory perhaps, but still a form of communication. He could not remember what they had talked about.

The room seemed stuffy. It was still two hours before dawn. A stroll down the garden to the length of river which edged it would be pleasant. He might see a kingfisher as it got light. He could take the bottle with him and finish it there. That wouldn't be possible in daylight – some snapper on the far bank might be waiting with a telephoto lens. How unusual, to go for a walk without being molested. He chuckled grimly. It seemed he had become a thing of the night.

Anthony opened the back door softly and tiptoed slowly out, shutting it behind him. To his
own surprise he no longer felt hostile to the press. They had a job to do; it was his own fault if he had given them something to write about.

He was angry with himself for being so stupid. Perhaps he should have taken up Elaine's invitation to talk further, for she at least had been kind to him. He was not impressed with Bampton. Had the man listened to his efforts to ask for help and responded, none of this might have happened; but he, Anthony, must take responsibility for his own actions and not blame others. In any moral code that had ever made sense to him, he was the master of his own fate.

He sat down by the river bank and lifted the bottle to his lips. A sudden plop in the water startled him, but it was only a foraging night animal. In a distant tree an owl hooted. A flutter above his head may have been a bat investigating him-as an intruder. He waved it sleepily away.

He trailed a finger in the black water. Its ripples intrigued him; so simple a matter, so complex and uncontrollable. The moon moved behind a cloud and it suddenly became darker. He liked it like that. He did not want it to get light again, ever.

The water lapped lazily at his feet. In its surface he could see stars reflected. Their perfection had no end; their existence was pure, inanimate, without thought or conscience. How very different from his own life, so muddied with confusion and weakness. Was the human state always to be thus – to understand what should be, but never to have the capacity to achieve it? To want something, and in wanting to know for certain that he could only aspire, never attain? He understood happiness, he was sure. But he had never felt it, never had it in his grasp. And now he never would.

The bottle was nearly empty. The sky had begun to lighten, a fraction, in the east. It would be daytime soon, with a return to all the misery, the torture of being. It would be better to stay here.

Here. In the quiet, alone but for the reeds and the trees which could not think or comment or condemn, where nobody and nothing cared who he was, or what he had done. Here. Now.

For most significant events the inhabitants of the Palace of Westminster have a standard response. Marriage was greeted with teasing, sometimes with concern, even commiseration: a man must marry, though preferably only once if he were to keep his constituency officers content. Births, frequent among the younger Members, met with admiration that a fresh dynasty was under way. It would have been bad manners to ask such a parent when, if ever, the family might spend time together, unless of course the Member happened to be female.

Death was different. The immediate reaction of most MPs was relief that it wasn't their own; given the punishing effect of long hours and open bars, subsidised restaurants and excessive stress, this response was understandable. Diaries would be consulted for attendance at funerals and memorial services, secretaries instructed to send floral tributes. In the Commons Library the obituary pages of
The Times
and
Telegraph
would rustle, especially now that their writers were so deliciously frank. Then the Honourable Members would reach for the nearest copy of
The Times Guide to the House of Commons
to check the most important fact about any departed colleague: the size of his majority and the vulnerability of his seat.

‘We'll have to attend, of course.'

Bampton spoke gruffly and shuffled his feet. Elaine nodded, her face miserable.

Nearby other figures milled gloomily in Members' Lobby. It was the first day back. The Party Conference had been overshadowed by the tragic news that the body of promising young junior Minister Anthony York had been found drowned in the river at the bottom of his parents' garden. He had left no note. There were no signs of a struggle. The post-mortem had revealed no congenital heart disease or other problems which might have precipitated a collapse. That the victim had been drinking heavily was suppressed for the sake of his family.

Of course it was
possible
that Anthony might have taken his own life, but that would have been the unhappiest conclusion. Those who chose to commit suicide tended to do it more brutally, as if to punish all who remained as well as making the outcome quite certain. They left behind not bewilderment but guilt. Nobody wanted that. Thus the coroner was likely to return an open verdict, which would satisfy no one but suit many.

The charges against Anthony were set aside. Carl Rosenberg tried to contact the Yorks to express his grief but they would not respond. Their postbag was too full of virulent letters gloating that their only son was dead.

A memorial service of some kind had, however, to be arranged. St Margaret's Westminster, the parish church of the House of Commons, was duly booked and the Speaker would attend. Tickets could be obtained from the Speaker's trainbearer's office. The service would be conducted by the Speaker's chaplain, as it was for all MPs. Since it had become known that Anthony had been in some kind of dispute with his boss Ted Bampton shortly before his death, it was felt wiser that the lesson should be read not by Bampton but by the Chief Whip.

‘I liked him very much. I shall miss him.' Elaine spoke quietly. Bampton, mindful of the Prime Minister's dressing-down, searched for appropriate words but could find none.

The pair were joined by Derek Harrison, tanned and fit as if he had enjoyed a long lazy summer. ‘Pity you didn't like him a bit more, Elaine,' he remarked breezily. ‘Attractive single woman like you. Oh, I know he was a bit on the young side, but it might have avoided a lot of trouble, mightn't it?'

Elaine whirled around in fury. ‘You are such a shit, Derek.'

Harrison laughed and wagged a finger. ‘Now, now. You should be nice to me, Elaine. I'm standing in the '22 Committee elections next week. I'm told I've every chance.'

The notion of Derek officially representing 250 backbenchers and thus wielding considerable
influence over Ministers through innuendo and intimidation did not improve the thoughts flowing through Elaine's brain. She made herself smile at him. ‘You have a big following, have you?'

‘I think so. Enough.' Harrison returned her smile confidently. ‘I shall take a particular interest in the affairs of the department, naturally. Willing to support you in every way, my dear Elaine.'

Roger Dickson ran his eye down the densely typed paragraphs and frowned. He tapped a Biro on page four, then addressed the handful of occupants in the Cabinet Room.

‘Another one. We really could do without these cases. Murder of an innocent member of the public by a deranged man who should years ago have been locked up, followed by a report by a distinguished QC which blames gaps in the government's community care policy. Everyone knew the killer was dangerous, he says, but nobody took effective action. Some of the so-called professionals involved were clearly blithering idiots. He seems to think we can be held responsible for every clinical decision taken in our name. Unfortunately, that's the public's view too.'

The full Cabinet was not present. Instead the DHWF team sat opposite: Bampton, Elaine and a nervous Fred. Civil servants had been excluded but the politicians were not alone. Beside the Prime Minister sat an earnest young man from the No. 10 Policy Unit and a new junior secretary called Alice, who discreetly took notes but said not a word.

‘They're hoping to use the story to show that we don't spend enough,' Bampton growled. He tried to sound belligerent but Anthony's death overlaid everything. In the middle of all this misery party politics felt like a dirty trick.

‘Of course they are. What do you propose to do to counter their argument?' Dickson's voice was neutral but his eyes were hard. He avoided looking at Elaine.

Bampton produced a sheet of paper. ‘I've prepared a letter to send to parliamentary colleagues. It will explain that the total amount available nationally for social services spending, including community care, has almost doubled from three point six billion pounds a year three years ago, to six point four billion in the current year. Even allowing for inflation that's nearly a fifty per cent increase. Much more rapid growth than any other area of local authority spending.'

Elaine added ruefully, ‘This was supposed to be a cheaper option as well as better. It was touted as saving millions compared with the cost of those dirty old hospitals. Hasn't turned out that way.'

The policy adviser agreed. His task was to add a few suitably defensive lines to the Treasury's Weekly Brief for Ministers. ‘It's the local councils which make most noise. They run the community care programme, not us. We give them the money, ring-fenced so it can't be spent on anything else, but still they demand more. Aren't they persuaded?'

‘They're mostly Labour. Or Liberal Democrat,' Bampton observed sarcastically. Advisers were wet behind the ears these days. ‘That's what happens when one party's been in power nationally for ages: the other side wins everything else. There
aren't
any councils under our control with these responsibilities – except Westminster and Wandsworth, plus Buckinghamshire, which we tried to abolish.'

That gave pause for thought. Fred ventured what seemed to him the obvious question. ‘I don't suppose there
is
any more money…?'

‘Now you sound like one of them, not one of us,' Roger chided. ‘There's usually a bob or two in the pot, Fred, but this year it's gone to keep Ulster Members sweet, to subsidise franchisees of private railway services and to pay off all those gays and lesbians we sacked from the armed forces. It's called choosing priorities.'

Bampton snorted as Fred subsided. The younger man was puzzled. Nobody seemed to be ‘choosing' anything. Someone decided the budgets, but if the studiously blank faces around the table were correct it wasn't anyone present. If not them, then who?

Roger pressed his lingers together. ‘The inquiry chairman wants changes in the law. We also face calls for compulsory medication for those outside hospital. Is any of this feasible?'

‘In the simple sense that we could get legislation through the Commons, yes,' replied Bampton, for whom the idea of tedious evenings guiding a complex new bill through its committee stages did not appeal one bit. ‘But what difference would it make? We have the power now to compel the barmy to accept medication but in practical terms we have to incarcerate them to do it. Since we don't have too many spare places, and few where a violent patient could safely be housed, it's a bit pointless.'

‘I hate to feel there's nothing we can do,' Roger mused. ‘Elaine, any ideas?'

It was on the tip of Elaine's tongue to suggest bluntly that, if their analysis was correct, further psychiatric hospital closures should be halted and plans made to open fresh units as a matter of urgency. More staff both inside and outside the hospitals would also be useful. But that was not how tricky issues were handled. It would help if such radical and obvious proposals could be made not by a single individual such as herself but by a powerful group. The question shifted, therefore, to how such a group might be brought into existence.

‘We could try the usual old chestnut,' she offered. ‘Since an inquiry has already taken place, and indeed it's not the first, perhaps we should set up a committee. A working party of Ministers if you like, Prime Minister.'

‘A Cabinet committee would carry more weight. I was thinking on the same lines.' Roger sensed that Elaine might have worked out some answers. ‘The Lord President will chair it and you'll be a member, Ted. We'd better have the Financial Secretary to the Treasury too, to keep you in line. My office will put out a press release. You can have
carte blanche
to investigate the problem of these roving maniacs terrorising our citizens. Except that I'd prefer to manage without changes in the law, and –'

‘And?' Ted prompted him with a half-smile. He could guess what was next.

‘And there's no more money. Not a penny. Happy?'

Dr Lachlan McDonald wrinkled his nose at the reek of tobacco, vinegar and unwashed bodies. Under his feet the carpet was grubby and suspiciously damp. The stuffing spilled out of the armchair, horsehair smelling of mould and decay. He wondered what state the toilet might be in and decided to wait.

The communal lounge of the hostel at Jeffreys Road, Lambeth, was not his idea of the finest consulting rooms, but as a conscientious practitioner it was his duty (and part of his training) to visit his charges wherever they lived. This was particularly true when the question at issue was whether the individual had adapted well to circumstances beyond the hospital and was ready for discharge.

Lachlan observed with approval that the man sitting opposite him was the cleanest object in the room. He scrutinised the dark blue blazer, grey slacks, shirt and tie for signs of wear or discoloration but could find none. Only the tobacco-stained fingertips revealed other obsessions, though the man was not smoking now.

‘Well, Graham, you seem to be doing well. You certainly look fine.'

‘Thank you, doctor. Keeping up appearances matters. It all helps with the rehabilitation.' Dunn spoke as if choosing his words with care. He avoided the familiarity which those in authority so readily, and infuriatingly, assumed with him.

‘The community psychiatric nurse comes in regularly? You've been getting your injections?'

Dunn shifted. ‘I have, but they make me a bit dozy. Now that I'm much better I'd prefer something lighter.'

Lachlan consulted the notes. ‘Yes, I thought that might be the case. I brought you some tablets which you might like to try. But you must take them regularly, or you run the risk of a relapse.'
He handed over a small bottle and explained the medication.

Dunn listened and nodded slowly. After so many years he reckoned he knew more about the different treatments, their power and their side effects, than the medics. Chemical straitjackets, most of them, and nasty in their own right – people got addicted, even died taking them. But it was unwise to reveal the extent of his knowledge. Doctors hated competition.

‘Do you have any long-term plans, Graham?' Lachlan asked kindly. It was hard to believe that the mild, pleasant person in the scruffy armchair had been accused of several knifings when in a violent rage, or that he had been described by one police officer as ‘very dangerous'. It was too easy to label patients early on, then fail to recognise a successful recovery under way.

‘I think I'll stay here for a while. It isn't the nicest place, but at least I'm close to people who know me. I have a little money and I'm looking for part-time work that won't affect my benefits. I've stopped smoking – well, almost. I'm going to classes to get fit and I've lost some weight. It's one day at a time, isn't it?'

Lachlan suppressed the suspicion that this recipe sounded a little too pat. Mental patients were often cunning. Dunn's assessments showed he was of normal intelligence and could be highly plausible. On the other hand, it would be folly to put a willing person off. He was prepared to give Dunn the benefit of the doubt, in the absence of any evidence to the contrary. Anyway, he could not hang around to probe more deeply: Anthony's memorial service was due to start in an hour. He smiled encouragingly. ‘Keep fit? Where?'

Dunn shrugged as if self-deprecating. ‘Oh, I do Tai-kwondo. No, don't worry. It's just
self-defence
stuff – nothing aggressive, but I enjoy it. In Battersea.'

‘You'll be finding yourself a girlfriend next.'

Dunn's eyes flickered but he kept his head down. ‘Yes, doctor. A good idea. I might well do that.'

He began to rub his hands together in that old compulsive gesture. Then he stopped himself, and laughed softly.

Elaine was shown to her place, two rows from the front. On one side of her Bampton slumped, a hymn-book unopened in his hand. On the other Karen, neatly dressed in a black suit, was bolt upright and pale. Across the aisle sat Fred, looking older, with other members of Anthony's Commons set.