A Woman's Place (52 page)

With a flourish Quin produced a piece of typed script.

‘Yes,' he said importantly as his listener waited. ‘I want to put down a Private Notice Question. For this afternoon. For the Department of Health. Am I in time?'

The official glanced at the clock. ‘Just. The Speaker likes PNQs before ten so you've squeaked in. It'll be considered at noon, then if she agrees the subject will go on the annunciator soon after.'

‘She will accept it, surely?' Quin looked anxious.

‘If it's an emergency, and significant, and not a prank, yes. The Minister then has to come
hot-footing
it here to answer at three-thirty. What's it say?'

Quin squared his shoulders, smiled and read: “‘Would the Secretary of State for Health please tell the House…'” He finished the sentence and grinned. ‘That should set the cat nicely among the pigeons, don't you think?'

The lights were too bright. They blazed down and blinded her. Her retinas were jagged with green and red. Her pulses were pounding: the rush of blood into her brain, rhythmic and urgent, made her nauseous. She wanted to shield her eyes, but any such gesture would produce an instant reaction from the banks of photographers. Every time she moved her head or blinked, light bulbs flashed, camera
motors whirred. Their editors needed a frown, a moment of despair or confusion, to liven the front page.

She felt disorientated; lack of sleep made her light-headed, with a hint of hysteria under the surface. If she could not see her audience she could not judge their reactions, whether warm or hostile, nor gauge how to win their approval against the odds. No wonder the Nazis used fierce light for interrogations.

‘Madam President, ladies and gentlemen,' she began, but halfway through the first paragraph she faltered and had to take a sip of water. Behind her on the platform a chair creaked.

She glanced up. Photographers jostled. Click, click, click. Words were coming out of her mouth but mechanically, without her usual verve. ‘We are making progress,' she heard herself say. ‘Safeguards are in place…' She passed a hand over her eyes. The momentary blackness was worse than the light.

The text was swimming before her, hidden by purple blotches. With an effort she persevered and stared at her notes. Their spare print was too faint. Her eyes began to water but she dared not reach for a tissue – the Minister wiping her eyes, almost in tears, would make a devastating picture. She tossed her head as a dog might, and took a deeper breath.

She didn't normally suffer from stage-fright. What was happening to her? Then the lines resolved themselves and suddenly she was looking once more at the morning's news story, the names ‘Clunis' and ‘Robinson' in bold headlines; and the face of the dead mutilated prostitute stared up at her from the lectern.

She had to get through this speech. It was the one agreed. Its sentences filled the anodyne press release even now being handed out by Mr Wilson, the press officer, though each copy bore the rider ‘Check against delivery'. It set out as had a dozen other speeches she had made with mounting distaste the correct policy, agreed and refined over years. It was not her place nor in her power, she now realised, to alter it. The working group of Ministers had met once or twice, but in the absence of any political will a reversal was impossible. Neither the drive nor the groundwork to make a considered judgement was available. Nobody but herself was in the least interested.

Why had she ever wanted to be a government Minister? What crazy urge had stimulated this ambition? It had started with altruism, of that she was reasonably sure – the desire to help others, after the death of her child. That was compounded by the huge pleasure when a speech was applauded, or when a case she had pursued succeeded, or when a new approach she had advocated proved popular. And she had thoroughly enjoyed the publicity, even orchestrated it, at least to begin with. Like most Ministers she had been gratified when her picture or a quote appeared in the press, sure that here was evidence she was doing her job properly. But not any more. If Chadwick was right and she was a good Minister, why did it bring her such distress? If George was right and she could fulfil herself outside politics, why did she continue to obey the rules, particularly when she was utterly certain, as she was today, that a mistake was being made?

What price loyalty – to the Prime Minister, to the party, to Ted Bampton? Somewhere inside her pounding head she heard a hollow laugh. The Prime Minister had not turned out to be a great deal of use to her apart from the original promotion, but that was no surprise: she could not expect favourable treatment. Their affair was long since over. As for the party, it was hard to be loyal when each month fewer of the policies enunciated by its main spokesmen made sense to her or to the electorate. If the sum total of the loyalty she could offer was to keep her own counsel on other colleagues' briefs, that did not restrict her action on her own.

And Bampton? At the thought a sour taste came into her mouth. It was clear from Chadwick's comment on the train that instructions had been given behind her back. The realisation that a fellow politician might use a civil servant – part of the opposing army – to keep her decent instincts in check was galling. Working for Ted had turned out to be a miserable experience.

It was entirely her own fault. She'd not been the great success she had hoped. Not matched up to her own expectations, nor anyone else's. Not shown that skill in getting on with people, so essential in the distorted world of politics, with even those she heartily disliked like Derek Harrison. Her natural honesty in such murky waters counted against her, not in her favour.

Only two pages left. The passage about St Kitts loomed. The audience was restless: her ambivalence had communicated itself. In the front row journalists watched her intently, then wrote in bursts. She could anticipate their verdicts. The Minister's speech did not go down well: a wooden performance, a lack-lustre stance. Rifts within the department. The Minister in a straitjacket, told by her boss to stick to the line. Bampton had wagged the finger and insisted: no imaginative comments, no jokes, no wisecracks. Mrs Stalker looked as if she wished she were anywhere else on earth. That last, at least, would be true.

With a little shake of defiance she raised her head.

‘I mentioned earlier my admiration for your campaign for the closure of old hospitals,' she said.
This was it
. ‘By and large you were right. But the public has expressed concern that we might have gone too far. So have sections of the tabloid press.'

A clatter of disapproval rolled around the delegates. Elaine raised her hand to calm them. On the front row Wilson the press officer, looking alarmed, flicked through his text as he searched in vain for the Minister's new words. She felt a sudden surge of excitement, of freedom.

She squared her shoulders and continued: ‘As a rule, as you know, their opinions and mine are not close. In particular I deplore their depiction of the mentally ill person as always dangerous or violent. That is wrong and unacceptable.'

A ragged spate of clapping broke out. Strong words, the taking of sides, was what they had come to hear, not the mealy-mouthed insincerities of most government speakers.

Elaine paused, glanced behind at her boats and put a metaphoric match to them.

‘I am not therefore bowing to any emotional pressure, nor to any ill-informed populist campaign, when I say that I have some sympathy for the view that we have shut too many hospitals.'

The applause faded and a murmur took its place. Emboldened, exhilarated, she drew herself up to her full height.

‘I am therefore announcing today that I will not be closing St Kitts Hospital in Leicestershire. The reason is that I am far from convinced that sufficient alternative provision has been made. It will have a five-year reprieve. I will invite the health trust to consider how its work can continue until Ministers are so satisfied. Till then St Kitts stays open, and I wish it well.'

Dimly behind the lights she was aware of noise and catcalls but she no longer cared. With a few anodyne sentences she finished and stepped away from the microphone. In a moment, after perfunctory thanks had been uttered, Chadwick hustled her down steps and into the back room.

He slammed the door shut. On the other side of it she could hear Wilson fending off raised voices from both angry delegates and an eager press. She felt light-headed, pure, happy.

Chadwick's face was like thunder. ‘Well, Minister, you've done it now,' he remarked coldly. It occurred to Elaine that he had been given strict orders to keep her under control and would himself be carpeted on their return. ‘Am I right in thinking that new policy was entirely your own idea, or did you manage to get clearance between New Street Station and here?'

Elaine was donning her coat and gloves. ‘I don't think you should speak to me like that, Mr Chadwick,' she responded calmly. ‘I said what I knew to be right. Anyway, it's done now, so I shall merely invite my colleagues to support me. Most of them don't give a damn.'

An assistant sidled in and handed Chadwick a note. He read it and snorted. His voice when he spoke again had a triumphant edge.

‘Well, Minister, you'll have a chance in a couple of hours to find out. The Opposition have put down a PNQ about the closure of St Kitts and the Speaker has accepted it. You'll be explaining
yourself the moment you get back. I wish you luck.'

The ministerial car was waiting at Euston at the end of the platform well away from the press. Once in the back seat Elaine sat silent and gazed unseeing out of the window. Chadwick spent most of the journey mumbling in Whitehallese into the car phone.

Several requests were relayed for press comment but Elaine shook her head. At the dispatch box she could defend herself, but by then the whips would have been at work rallying support. The last thing the Prime Minister needed was the weakening of another member of his government. The tabloids and the editorial in tomorrow's
Standard
would sing her praises, though that was not why she had done it. She had gambled, but it was hardly an earth-shattering revolution. After a slight wobble and a row with Bampton, she would be safe.

And after that? She pushed her mind beyond the worries of recent weeks. Her stand on St Kitts made her feel different, more confident. It had cleared her conscience: she had done what she could to avenge the life of that poor dead girl, however remote the link. Were she to be hauled before the Chief Whip to be ticked off, she would seize the opportunity to request a transfer in the next reshuffle. She had had enough of Bampton, his arrogance, his belligerence his lack of courtesy, his picky criticisms, his failure to trust her. She was sick to death of having to explain herself when other Ministers received the benefit of the doubt, probably simply because they were men. If the government meant what it said about promoting women then it could start with her.

The thought occurred that maybe she should circumvent the problem and ask to speak to the Chief Whip herself. She might also call George, apologise for her miserable manners to him, and ask if he'd like supper.

One thing was for sure, she had no intention of doing her boxes, not tonight. If necessary she would plead illness or overwork. She needed the night off, desperately.

That her reflections were not entirely rational, that she was dog-tired just beneath the surface, made her smile wanly. That she had by her wilful actions confirmed Ted's lack of faith in her was a consideration pushed to the furthest reaches of her mind. She snuggled down inside her coat, leaned her face against the glass and drifted into central London in a daze.

‘Whaddya mean, it's been stolen?'

Wholesale greengrocer Calum McCafferty, otherwise known as ‘Mr Spud', and thirty years in the business, shoved his unshaven chin into the twitching face of his delivery man. ‘How can you lose a van? Wha' happened?'

‘I tell you, I was only gone a minute. I was delivering potatoes to the mini-market on the corner of Blake Street. I took the last bag in round the back and got the geezer to sign. I come out – and it's gawn.'

‘But why in Christ's name would anybody wanna steal a van half full of carrots and cauliflower? Ciggies, whisky, yeah. Prize antiques: that I could understand. But veggies?'

‘It was a good van. Unmarked. Maybe somebody wants it for a robbery,' the younger man offered helpfully.

Calum's eyes narrowed. ‘Oh, aye. One of your mates, was it? Going in for a bit of
ram-raiding
, are we? It'll end up smashed to smithereens. Worthless – a write-off. Bloody 'ell.' He sighed heavily and brooded, then brightened. Provided the insurers were satisfied, a smaller van would be adequate in future and he could pocket the difference.

He grunted at his assistant. ‘I'll get on to the insurance company. You'd better have your tale pat when the assessor comes round. Meanwhile turn your tiny brain to this question – how'm I going to get three ton of best Spanish onions out to my customers in the next couple of hours?'

The Secretary of State crashed his fist down on the table. Coffee-cups jumped. A file slithered to the floor. Above his head chandeliers shimmered in sympathy. At his side, his face a mask, stood Martin Chadwick. In the background hovered Miss Clarkson, eyes blinking, earrings juggling in agitation. Of one fact there was not a shred of doubt: Ted Bampton, pacing around his office, was apoplectic.

‘No! You did the exact opposite of what you were expressly told to do. You departed from an agreed and cleared text. You made it up as you went along. You've caused endless headaches in this department and elsewhere. And you want me to support you?'

Elaine, her back to the mock fireplace, returned his stare calmly. She felt serene. The lunchtime news had been full of her morning's exploits. Her picture was on the front of the
Evening Standard
– ‘
MINISTER DEFIES PARTY LINE ON CLOSURES
.' Her office had been bombarded with requests for interviews. The public perception of her defiant act matched her own – that she had done what she believed in, despite enormous pressure to conform. The main result of the fuss would be to enhance her reputation. The Prime Minister, if begged to get rid of her by this red-faced monster now dancing attendance before her, would simply move her to another department. Thus she would have killed two birds with one stone.