A Woman's Place (48 page)

Half a mile away the ministerial car slowed.

‘Oh Christ,' Chadwick muttered. He put the car phone back in its cradle and turned to Elaine. ‘There's a big demo. Blocking the front. Looks a bit ugly. The police advise you go in the back way. They've prepared an entrance through the kitchen. Can you climb through a window?'

Elaine's pulse started to race and her mouth went dry. Beside her Fiona Murray shrank into her coat.

‘No, that's not on,' Elaine responded quietly. ‘We've come to listen and we can hardly do that if we skulk about.'

In front Sheila, returned early to duties, stiffened and slipped the car into a lower gear. Chadwick and Murray exchanged glances. Neither dared demur from the royal ‘we' so readily assumed by Her Majesty's Ministers. Had officials had their way, the forbidding pile looming before them, its portals flanked by protesters, would long since have been razed to the ground.

‘Then the police advise that you get inside quickly, Minister, for your own safety.'

‘Oh, they're exaggerating,' Elaine made herself say. ‘What are they bothered about – nutters among the crowd? People affected by the closure are upset and I can understand that.'

It was clear from his face that Chadwick was genuinely worried. She responded to his concern. ‘I'll be careful. But I'd rather do it my way.'

The Rover turned into the driveway and edged cautiously between the lines of demonstrators. Elaine knew she must not hide herself: she sat up straight, set her face in a smile and undid her
seat-belt
ready for a speedy emergence.

Dunn could just see her if he stood on tiptoe. She was searching the crowd for him and he waved frantically and called to her. At last she beamed brightly at him from the back of the car. She was looking lovely.

As the car door opened and Elaine got out the shouts rose to a crescendo. Most were unsavoury, some obscene. Dunn gasped at the foul language and abuse screamed over his head. ‘Stalker! Stalker! Out, out, out!' and ‘
Kill the bitch
!' came from somewhere in the melee. As if by signal the yells were followed by a hail of over-ripe tomatoes. Most seemed to miss. Then one
appeared in a fist near his ear and was more accurately aimed: it hit the Minister with a firm sound and splattered over her dark coat, to a roar of delight from the crowd. Once she was in range more began to fly. The superintendent moved to her side and took her arm. Through it all Elaine grinned determinedly and waved, but after a moment's hesitation she headed straight for the sanctuary of the main door, nearly hidden from sight by burly policemen.

There was a crack and fizzle and Dunn's eyes began to water – somebody must have thrown a stink bomb or a firework. The yells in the front became tinged with fear. Behind him somebody pushed hard, then another, and he found himself being shoved forward. His feet scrabbled for a hold and he almost fell.

A woman's voice was screeching in his ear – some dreadful things about Elaine, terrible words which derided her beauty, her probity, her character. Criticisms which he, Graham Dunn, knew to be totally untrue. He lurched away. Full of anger he reached into his pocket.

It was after a tour of the desolate empty wards, her heart still thumping, face white with strain, that Elaine sat down at a table with the staff who had not walked out to listen to their pleas. The discussion did not last long. Chadwick was motioned away by the superintendent with a sombre look. He returned and waited respectfully until a break in the proceedings, then whispered urgently in Elaine's ear. What he murmured to her made her pick up her papers, nod curt goodbyes and move rapidly to the door.

As the car purred out of the hospital grounds Elaine craned her neck. A drizzle obscured the windscreen. The remaining demonstrators stood around disconsolate and weeping. An ambulance was parked askew on the turf, its doors wide open. Paramedics in bundled anoraks knelt in the pool of light from its headlamps, the rain silvering their hair. On the ground lay the body of a middle-aged woman in a dirty green coat, her fingers still curled around a soft tomato. The dark stain on fabric and earth told what the police had already established: that she had been knifed, once, fatally in the neck, probably by somebody in the crowd.

‘You weren't listening to the play. In fact I don't believe you took in one word. Was it that murder?'

Elaine shifted in the taxi and nodded unhappily at George. He checked that the cabbie's eyes were firmly fixed on the wet night in Charing Cross Road. Gently he pulled her into his arms to comfort her.

‘Yes, in part. That poor woman – she meant no harm. Her son had worked there twenty years and was about to lose his job, that was all. But I can't help thinking about myself. It makes me feel that the knife could have been aimed at … well, me. Demonstrations are bad news – you never know who might be in there. It's scary.'

‘If you'd avoided the crowd, you'd have been called a coward.'

‘Right. But better than being a dead hero. Or heroine.'

George took her hand and rubbed it absent-mindedly. ‘Nobody outside sees those risks. I certainly didn't. It's not only the IRA, is it? You're a target for everyone.'

She laughed ruefully. ‘Part of the job. Part I've come to hate. I get really frightened sometimes.'

He turned, concerned. ‘Cheer up. You're doing very well. I see more of you on TV than in the flesh and you always come across wonderfully. I want to tell everyone that I know you: I feel so proud.'

‘Don't. It's all an image. Sometimes I feel so confused. I don't know any more what's real, what's me, and what's make-up or lighting or lines-to-take. That visit was a case in point: I wanted to help, to show somebody cared, but when I think it through I went to salve my own conscience. The public verdict will be different – that a Minister got her just deserts and that poor mother didn't. I feel so badly about it, but there is nothing I can do or say that doesn't make things worse.'

‘You can talk to me.'

But Elaine was speaking almost to herself, her voice bitter.

‘I feel as if I am vanishing. D'you know, I long to make my own speeches, not phrases concocted by somebody else. I dream of saying “I agree!” when an interviewer makes a hostile point, instead of batting it airily away. I yearn to tell the truth for once. It's not easy.'

‘But you're still enjoying the job, surely? You're getting on better with Bampton, aren't you?'

Elaine's silence told him. She sighed and continued. ‘It's fiendishly difficult to make any worthwhile impact, that's the problem. Easy if I simply mouth the same old policies, but then what's the point of being a Minister? Ministers are supposed to have power, yes? That's what everyone thinks. Yet here am I, powerless to make changes in key areas I understand and care about.'

Her face as she spoke seemed haunted. George squeezed her hand and was silent.

‘As for Bampton … To shift policy I need the active support of my boss, which I don't have. He neither trusts me nor knows how to work with me. He'd be much more comfortable with another man – he and Derek got on fine. Ted seems to have no confidence in my judgement. My own fault, probably.'

‘What on earth do you mean?' George was now thoroughly alarmed.

‘
I
can't grasp what makes
him
tick. If I did, I could persuade him. But if I make a suggestion he rubbishes it. If I give an instruction he'll countermand it. I never seem to get the benefit of the doubt. This hostility is becoming a vicious circle and is creating a terrible atmosphere.'

‘Are you sure you're not just feeling sorry for yourself? You do work crazy hours, Elaine. It's easy to get matters out of perspective if you're exhausted.'

To his relief she giggled weakly. ‘Woody Allen once said that just because you're paranoid it doesn't mean they're not after you.' She paused, then carried on, choosing her words with care. ‘Let me give you an example. A month ago I was asked to do a long interview on the Dimbleby show – you know, Sunday lunchtime. I was unsure: my critics say I'm on the box too much and Ted feels overshadowed. So I told him I reckoned it was much more appropriate for a Secretary of State. Ted got quite shirty, said I wasn't to decide his television appearances for him, and that I must accept. As it turned out I was right to be reluctant – colleagues have been quite snide about it.'

George was curious. ‘And if you'd said you were keen …?'

‘He'd have insisted that he do it.'

‘Heavens. Sounds like you have indeed figured out how his brain works, but it's not attractive. The sole consolation I can offer is that it happens in business too – usually, as you've guessed, when a boss is challenged by a more effective subordinate and doesn't like it.'

‘Especially if the underling is a woman? Even if that is categorically not her intention?'

‘Absolutely. No bloke likes to be shown up by a female. It's still a man's world, Elaine.'

The taxi slowed as Elaine indicated the entrance to her block of flats. Both emerged under a big umbrella and George paid, then escorted her up the steps.

‘Do you want to come up – coffee, or whatever?'

The offer was made out of politeness and increasing habit, but it was obvious that she was tired. He shook his head.

‘I won't. But listen, Elaine. You don't have to be stuck this way. There is another world out there in which people lead civilised lives, get to bed at reasonable hours, earn respectable money, have friendships and loves and success based not on lies and hypocrisy but on hard work and talent. If you want to leave any time, I can help you, make introductions. You don't have to be a Minister – or even in politics at all.'

She leaned her face against the wet door-jamb. The soft patter of rain on the umbrella sounded like whispered words from afar. She shook her head.

‘I don't think you follow me, George. This
is
my life. I chose it years ago. You can't get into
politics at all unless you decide quite early and go for it single-mindedly. I've never done anything else – a bit of teaching, that's all. To pack it in would mean giving up everything I believe in –
everything I am
. It would mean giving up: not simply abandoning a career, but also tearing up my credo that a good person
can
get things done, can make a difference. I look at some of the' – she searched for adequate descriptions – ‘some of the self-centred bastards and fools and incompetents and downright crooks who head for Westminster. They're outnumbered by the nice guys, but the latter are much less effective. I tell myself that good must win in the end, and that I must stick it out. If I resign, somebody better might well fill my place. More likely it'd be another Harrison. That's why I stay and battle on. But God, it makes me weary.'

George stroked her hair and turned a damp curl around his finger. He had not planned what came next, though he had known for some time that it would happen. Not on a wet doorstep, not after a melancholy exchange, had been his intention, but after a wonderful dinner, a loving conversation and bed. But it was not kind to leave Elaine alone and distressed. If he accepted her half-hearted invitation to come up, he would only be a nuisance. The red box behind the fiat door would command more of her attention; she would not relax until every paper inside it was read, annotated, signed. Thus the doorstep it would have to be, with the night rain dripping slowly off the umbrella down their necks, hiding on her drawn face what he suspected were tears.

‘My dearest girl, I love you very much and I am deeply troubled to see you so unhappy. It doesn't have to be like this. Think about it. And while you're at it…'

He hesitated. Did he really want to? Was permanent entanglement with Elaine entirely wise? She was a public figure, an icon and an Aunt Sally, blamed for deaths and tragedies, an exemplar both admired and reviled. Her internal world was minuscule and shrinking, and apparently not of great significance to her. This was a woman who performed in public daily for the sheer love of it; would that not be anathema to a very private man? Despite his strictures against Bampton, how comfortable might he himself feel as her official partner, forever in her shadow and no longer a person in his own right, teased by his male friends as the lady Minister's bag-carrier?

He looked down into her eyes, which were half closed against the weather. She swayed slightly against him and his heart went out in pity and love. This was Elaine, whose body he knew so well, warm and round and wholesome. This was the woman who had brought gaiety into his otherwise dour life, whose femininity was a constant joy. This was the battling spirit whose intelligence and dogged persistence had brought her to high office, whose sweetness of soul had protected her through pain and desertion. She was formidable; and beautiful; she was a great prize. Millions of people whom she had never met trusted and liked her. He should do the same.

He drew himself up to his full height.

‘Elaine – will you marry me?'

‘Oh George…' She began to laugh wanly. His expression told her he was serious. For several moments there was silence.

Elaine took a deep breath. ‘Marriage was the last thing on my mind. I think the world of you. But to be honest I'm not completely over Mike or … the other one, my ex-lover. That still hurts, a lot. And given the mess I made of being wed I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a wife – certainly not the conventional kind. I'd treat you as badly as I did him. Anyway, I have more than enough on my plate right now.'

It was not every night that a fine man proposed. Feeling slightly ridiculous, but conscious that her response was more than a little ungracious, she reached up and kissed George on his cheek. Her finger traced the faint mark her lipstick had made.

She reached in her bag for her key and unlocked the front door. ‘I'm not the remarrying kind, George,' she said. ‘At least, I don't think so. But don't go off me, will you? Apart from my daughter you're the best thing in my life, by a streak.'