A Woman's Place (45 page)

Before her were ranged the family, backs bowed. His sister Harriet, who resembled her mother rather than Anthony, had two big-eyed children and a husband in tow. Aunts and a grandmother huddled together. At the first notes of the organ, as the Yorks settled into their pews, whispers from those nearby noted the resemblance between Anthony York and his father and murmured at the grief of his mother. From under a black velvet hat her grey hair straggled, untended.

There was no coffin. The remains had been cremated in a ceremony two days before attended only by close relatives. The press had been deliberately misled as to the time and place and had turned up to find an empty churchyard. The ashes would be scattered in the meadows he had loved. There would be no stone, no plaque.

Elaine blew her nose and glanced around. The Prime Minister was not present, but was represented by the Chief Whip. Only for a more senior Minister, or a particular personal friend, would Dickson make time to come. Elaine wondered whether, had it been her, he would have attended. Would the mask have slipped long enough to reveal that he knew her and cared for her? With a slight shake of her head she dismissed such notions. It was wiser not to speculate.

The church was full; plenty of anonymous well-wishers had turned up, including a gaggle of leather-jacketed bikers, whose shambling arrival produced jibes about Anthony's secret vices. Patiently it was explained that he had helped a motorbike club faced with complaints about noise; they had as much right as anyone else to pay their respects. Elaine surmised that others included
representatives from the constituency and from charities and causes with which Anthony had been associated. And, anxious not to cause any offence, the bearded health worker he had attacked slid quietly into a seat at the back.

Without the co-operation of the parents the chaplain had been at a loss to devise a suitable service. He did not know the dead man personally. That a lesson might be driven home had not, however, escaped him.

‘Deliver me from all mine offences: and make me not a rebuke to the foolish' came the rolling tones.

The congregation sighed and looked down. It might be Psalm 39, Elaine reflected resentfully, but these were hardly words of comfort. She felt unutterably sad.

There was a rustle in front as one of the family moved forward. The young man stood facing the worshippers for a moment as if in prayer. ‘That's Lachlan,' Karen whispered. The American accent when it came lent breadth and dignity to his address.

‘Anthony was my cousin, and my friend. He was, in any terms that make sense, an honourable man. He believed in service, he believed in duty…'

As he spoke, the man he described came back with a rush to everyone present. Elaine gave up any attempt at self-control and wept. Beside her, tears glistened on Karen's cheeks. Mother and daughter clasped hands tightly.

Lachlan moved back to his seat. The organ began to rumble for the final hymn. The worshippers rose for the last time.

They didn't come much purer than Anthony, Elaine thought savagely. That was the trouble. She had the distinct sensation of Anthony's presence, sombre and cool, deploring with his friends both the tragedy and its causes. If she turned around he would be standing there in his dark coat, staring ahead. He had let himself down. He died because he set himself standards that were too high, impossible for him to reach. His death was an accident, no matter what happened exactly.

The silence of eternity
. Never to speak, or be heard. Never again to explain or justify or persuade. Never to communicate: that meant for MPs like herself and Anthony, Bampton and Roger, nothing, the end of existence, for ever. She was certain Anthony never wanted that.

The last verse: she could not join in any more. Around her voices soared, high and floating.

The mourners came outside into winter sunshine and stood about hesitantly. With Karen beside her Elaine paid her respects to the family, then lingered. She had an obligation not only as Anthony's closest colleague but as a recognisable presence to acknowledge the shy greetings of strangers. A few words were exchanged with the bikers, who trudged off towards their parked machines pursued by photographers. It was a relief to hear a familiar voice.

‘Tragic business all round.'

‘Hello, Betty. What are you doing here?'

Betty Horrocks pulled her fur-collared black coat closer around her. In her hat with its tiny veil and the discreet diamond brooch she looked correct and dignified. ‘Known the family for years. Mrs York's some kind of second cousin by marriage. Anyway, my curiosity overcame me; and I thought maybe you and Karen could use a little support too.'

‘Thank you. You're right. I feel so horribly guilty about the whole thing. If only he had asked for help – if we had responded – he might still be alive.'

‘If only we had known about his old troubles.'

‘We did.'

Both Karen and Elaine had spoken together. The three women stared at each other in surprise. Elaine took the lead. ‘I knew he had a history of mental instability. He told me. But that doesn't mean he was about to go off the rails again. And, though I tried to get him to talk, after the summer he clammed up. I wish now I'd tried harder.'

‘And I knew he was having problems with … personal relationships,' Karen continued cagily. There were too many journalists around to speak openly. ‘He was a mixed-up guy. I wish I'd sat him down and got him to relax and confide. Or asked Lachlan for help. God, what a mess.'

Across the square Big Ben began its long peal. It was twelve noon. Elaine kissed Betty and gave Karen a hug.

‘I must go. I've a speech to write about our wonderful mental illness policies. The temptation to mention Anthony in it is strong, but perhaps I'd better not.'

She walked quickly away.

Betty watched her retreating figure, then turned to Karen.

‘Your mother's looking tired. Working too hard, probably, though with the upheavals in that department it's hardly surprising. The place seems jinxed.'

‘There's nothing to prevent her overdoing it now,' Karen mused. ‘I mean, when I was at home, and Dad, she
had
to stop sometimes. But now she's on her own…' She hesitated. It occurred to her that Betty might be reluctant to touch on the subject for fear of hurting her feelings. She took the plunge. ‘What Mum needs is a man.'

Betty chuckled. ‘She's got one. My brother-in-law. He's quite keen on her.'

‘George? Yes, I know about him. Been going on over a year now, hasn't it? What's he like?'

‘Haven't you met him? Goodness, aren't they a pair of dark horses? You should. After all, if they do get together he could end up as your stepfather.'

The shocked expression on Karen's face made the older woman pause. She laid a hand on the girl's arm. ‘How would you feel?'

‘I … I don't know. To be honest, I'd never thought about anything like that. It's not because I'm so close to Dad – I'm not. He's so wrapped up in his new family that I hardly figure, but I don't resent it. I suppose it's simply that the idea is so new.'

Betty's practical nature reasserted itself. ‘Then you should get to know George. If he's the right man for your mother you'll like him. Leave it to me.'

Slightly shaken, Karen laughed. ‘Betty, you're a wicked old matchmaker.' But she put her arm round her and gave her a cuddle. Betty as a step-auntie was a comforting thought.

Fred was hovering. Betty took the hint and after exchanging a few polite words with the
young MP headed for a taxi.

‘I'd like to offer you my arm, Karen, but everybody would notice,' Fred observed wryly. ‘You busy, or can we walk somewhere? The moment I go back inside I have to start being official again, and I don't feel like it just yet.'

Her failure to help Anthony still oppressed her. Karen realised that she would never again dismiss appeals from friends so casually. ‘Sure,' she responded easily. ‘Let's go along the Embankment towards Cleopatra's Needle. If we're careful we can avoid the press – they've plenty of material for tomorrow's papers.'

The two strolled quietly, without touching, away from the church and crossed Parliament Square near the House of Commons car park. They walked up Westminster Bridge Road by the new Tube station, then left at the top, past the landing stage which in summer would be swarming with tourists. As Westminster receded behind them Fred glanced quickly about, then slipped Karen's arm through his own.

He had expected to reflect with her over Anthony's death, and what might have been in their friend's mind at the time. He started to share the Lobby gossip about what exactly the chap had been doing on the Heath, but Karen was not interested and shook her head. Nothing whatever in her
make-up
permitted any levity about Anthony's death; it seemed to her dreadful that anybody could make jokes out of it, or any of the events that led up to it. She seemed preoccupied and troubled.

Fred switched to another subject. Anthony's will, recently published, had shown him to be relatively wealthy. Apart from small bequests, his parents would receive everything. The ownership of the house was an issue for them both.

‘I think I'll try to buy it – his people might give me a reasonable price. If they're difficult I'll have to go elsewhere. A parliamentary salary doesn't run to properties in Battersea, I'm afraid.'

‘We may have to move, then.' Karen tucked her scarf in more closely against the wind. She chose a stone bench and sat down, with Fred huddled up beside her. ‘Lachlan will be going home before long, so he doesn't count. I doubt if the Yorks will take any action until he's gone. You'll be OK. That leaves me.'

There was silence. Fred bit his lip. What he planned to say weighed heavily on him. The words he had rehearsed seemed utterly inadequate: once more, as so often with Karen, he feared he would most probably make a complete fool of himself.

On the river a barge laden with rusty containers wallowed sluggishly as it headed for Tilbury. Once this part of the Thames had been solid with traffic, but relatively little now came this far. The rumble of cars along the Embankment provided a protective barrier to their conversation and created an illusion of privacy. Behind them fractious children in quilted jackets were being propelled along by tired mothers. Opposite sat the concrete monstrosities of the National Theatre, Hayward Gallery and the Museum of the Moving Image, depressing lumps of tasteless grey concrete. On the bridge to his right a solitary male figure walked steadily, head down against the wind. In St Thomas's Hospital neon was ablaze through every window, as ever; somewhere inside under those lights, cancer was being excised, a blood transfusion was under way, a brain tumour had been diagnosed. Life went on, and death, whether Fred opened his mouth to speak or not.

He moved closer and took Karen's hand. ‘You don't need to worry about where you're going to live, Karen. You can stay with me.'

He felt a responding squeeze. ‘Thanks, Fred. You are sweet. We'll have to see. I mean, you can't be seen shacking up alone with a spare bird just like that. You have your reputation to consider. Maybe we'll advertise for a flatmate, or somebody at the House may want to come and share.'

‘No!' To his horror it was clear that Karen's mind was running along a completely different groove. ‘That's not what I meant at all.'

She turned her face to him, bewildered. ‘Sorry. Don't get cross. Then what did you mean?'

All the fine words, the protestations of love, vanished into thin air. Aghast, he sat for a moment with his mouth open. Karen turned away, her gaze following a seagull which circled over the water a few feet away. The man on the bridge had reached Boadicea's statue at the Westminster end. The seagull's cry seemed to echo the anguished wailing in Fred's own breast.

‘I … Karen … can't you see? Am I that awful – that it doesn't occur to you? I want to marry you. There. Now I've said it.'

Breathing heavily he slumped back, chin thrust down into his coat.

‘Let me get this straight,' the girl said slowly, her gaze firmly on Fred's face. He could not lift his eyes to meet hers. ‘You want us to set up house together? As man and wife?'

Fred nodded dumbly. Now was the moment to tell her how wonderful she was, how much he wanted her, what a gap she had created in his life that only she could fill. The words would not come.

‘Well…' Karen was dubious. ‘In the first place, Fred, I'm still a student. I'm nowhere near ready to get married yet. Settling down, to be frank, was not on my list of things to do this year. Second…' She glanced at him sideways. How could she tell him how bizarre the idea seemed? Not that she had any objections to Fred himself. He would make an excellent husband, of that she had no doubt. He was straight as a die, kind and devoted to her. He would be faithful, and loyal. He was great company, even when he was rattling on about his job, and increasingly exciting in bed.

But Mrs Fred Laidlaw? An MP's wife? It was bad enough to be an MP's daughter. At least that was a temporary matter, in the sense that as she developed, her umbilical cord with her mother was shrinking. To choose to marry Fred, on the other hand, would be to tie herself to a political man for the rest of her life, with all the restrictions that would entail. The whole suggestion made her recoil.