A Woman's Place (6 page)

Betty chuckled. ‘You've never served on a selection committee, have you, Elaine? You'd be amazed how many deadbeats turn up. If they can't make a success of life outside politics they think they're ideally suited to running the country. But from his delighted expression you were clearly nice to him and I'm glad. He might be successful somewhere, you never can tell.'

At this Betty took Elaine's arm and firmly propelled her in the direction of the main hall.

‘If you plan to speak in the law and order debate, Elaine, you'd better get a move on; it's about to start. We'll be out there rooting for you. Go sock it to 'em.'

Inside the hall, at a nondescript table half hidden at the right-hand side of the podium, a shrewd-eyed woman was sorting speakers' slips. Rachel Dutch was organiser for the area covering Elaine's seat. She glanced up as Elaine approached.

‘Hi! If you've come to ask whether you'll be called the answer is yes. About fourth, so be ready.'

‘Are the others all hang 'em and flog 'em types?'

‘Most of them, naturally. Conference debates aren't supposed to be taken seriously, Elaine, you know that. But the Home Secretary would be grateful for some intelligent support.'

There was no time to be nervous. In a moment her name was called and to polite applause she made her way to the rostrum. Like all other contributors she would be allocated only the same four minutes: enough for only a couple of punchy points.

A dozen cameras swivelled. As she began to speak their huge lenses peered into her face, framed by her blonde hair. To counter the all-enveloping mid-blue of the background she had chosen a navy suit with cream piping around the neckline – echoes of Margaret Thatcher in her heyday, perhaps, but that evocative image would do her no harm. The effect was cool, professional and elegant.

‘Madam Chairman, ladies and gentlemen. I have listened with care and approval to the
speeches so far, but have chosen to speak against the motion.'

Conference statements were so congratulatory about the government's successes both real and imaginary that less experienced delegates rushed to express their agreement. An ‘against' slip simply increased her chances of being called. Once in place she could say what she liked. The tinny feedback of the loudspeakers startled her and she took a half-step back to bring the sound output more under her control.

‘We have heard demands for more police officers, with which I agree strongly.' Applause rippled around the hall.

‘As for arming the police, let me say this: it has long been our tradition that our police should be armed only when absolutely necessary. This is a unique tradition and the envy of the world. I don't think we should casually ignore that tradition and I hope Conference will agree.'

The repetition of ‘tradition' enabled her to take a more liberal line and still receive applause. The Home Secretary was nodding thoughtfully. The notion of yet more weaponry on the streets made both anxious. A gun in the hands of even the most sober officer could turn him in a wild moment into a gangster. Innocent passers-by had been caught in crossfire. Such a step would not be easy to defend if matters got out of hand, but would be impossible to change back once the general move was made.

‘But perhaps I can say this, as a mother as well as an MP. We go wrong too when we expect other people to sort out crime, or if we blame others for its causes. People today have blamed the teaching profession, or the church, or television, for the lack of moral strength in our nation. We should be looking closer to home. Indeed, to the home itself.'

Elaine raised her head and stabbed the air with a forefinger. Camera light bulbs flashed. The platform party leaned forward, eyes on the rising star.

‘If our children do not know the distinction between right and wrong, that confusion starts – at home. If youngsters have a casual attitude to other people's property, that's an approach they may well have picked up – in their own living rooms. If skiving off school is normal practice, maybe they're copying a parent who slopes off from work. If bullying in the playground, pushing weaker kids around, has become the norm, maybe some parents haven't bothered to correct the first signs or, even when a teacher has tried to, have gone round to the school and
thumped the teacher
.'

Delegates were murmuring agreement but she stilled the applause. The ‘one minute' warning light began to flash.

‘So I have a different recipe. If, in fact, we want to improve our society, we have to start right at the basics, in the home, the family. We – you and me – have to set the highest standards, not only for our children but for ourselves. Surely we Tories understand that. We have to set an example. It's not enough to demand more police or more guns, or more prisons or probation or punishment – these are only useful
after
the event.

‘Today's crime comes from yesterday's mistakes. If we want to do better tomorrow, we must start – right now. I beg to oppose the motion.'

The red light came on. Time was up, but she had finished bang on time. A roar of approval came from the body of the hall. Her hands shook as she gathered up her papers and returned to her seat.

Once there she sat watching the next speaker as flashbulbs popped in her face. The pictures would look well the following day, showing her dignified and serious, exactly right for such a topic. Headlines would welcome her assertion of family values and link her urgings with the revived campaign for ‘back to basics' for which the right wing yearned, but which had foundered on the blatant failure to espouse such values by too many members of the government.

An unfamiliar masculine voice sounded in her ear. It had a pleasant musical tone but was very deep.

‘Well done, Mrs Stalker. You talked a lot of good sense about the police but they swallowed
it. Quite an achievement.'

Elaine found herself looking into brown eyes a startling few inches from her own, set in a slightly craggy but handsome face. ‘Thank you. It's a nerve-racking business, though.'

For a moment she imagined that the man might put his own hand protectively on hers, which still clutched the crumpled papers of her speech.

‘We've met before. I'm George Horrocks. I believe you know my sister-in-law Betty Horrocks. I read out the results at your election count … do you remember?'

Here was an acquaintance she would happily renew. How great was the contrast between this slimly built man, his tie carefully chosen and knotted, a fresh white handkerchief peeping from his breast pocket, and sad, grubby Roy Twistleton. The next speaker was ranting vigorously about bringing back the birch. Behind a fierce woman hissed for silence. Elaine made ready to slip out.

‘No, don't do that. Aren't you supposed to stay and listen to compliments from the Home Secretary? Anyway, we'll meet tomorrow. You're coming to the Prima breakfast. I'm your host.'

The breakfast had not surfaced in her thinking: the speech had been all. Suddenly it took on an interesting new aspect. It was a long time since a man had been that close, but the brief enforced intimacy seemed quite natural. ‘I'll look forward to it, Mr Horrocks.'

‘My name's George,' he whispered. Then he was gone.

‘Oh, God, time to get up.'

Derek Harrison mouthed curses at the alarm clock and rolled over. A twinge of memory made him check whether there was another body in the bed and if so whose; but the young lady was already awake and a long, tanned arm was pushing yellow hair out of sleepy blue eyes. A firm freckled breast, its nipple rosy, peeped invitingly above the sheet.

Harrison composed his manner and kissed the warm young flesh. His tone became wheedling.

‘I'm so sorry, darling, I didn't mean to wake you. Did you sleep well?'

‘Uh-huh, sure. Well, I was knackered, Derek. You really know how to go for it, don't you? How many times was it – four? I lost count…'

She reached over and tried to caress his face, but Harrison knew that if he did not remove himself at once he would be late. He cast around in his mind for the girl's name but could only recall the Tory Reform Group party, ever a useful fount of nubile young women with independent ideas.

‘You're super in the sack yourself, you know.'

He headed for the bathroom and switched on the shower. Its almost cold water made him gasp and dance. As he emerged, rubbing his hair dry with the thick hotel towel, the girl stretched languidly, pushed back the duvet and smiled slyly at him. She must have been about twenty, her skin peachy, her figure rounded, breasts and abdomen perfectly curved and firm. Her hand slipped down to the fuzz between her parted thighs. Their clothes lay in a tangled heap on the floor; to retrieve his own he would have to kneel near the toes wriggling over the side of the bed…

Some day, when she had landed a Conservative MP and adopted Jaeger suits and pearls, she would be tubby and formidable; but not yet. He stopped towelling and looked down at himself.

‘Oh, damn,' he said. ‘Oh, well.'

It was going to be a long day. The young waitress's feet hurt already. On duty at seven on a dismal morning for a measly £2.50 an hour – what a life. She pushed a lock of damp hair out of her eyes before ladling scrambled egg on to the heated plates alongside glistening slices of black pudding, bacon, extra-large sausages, tomato, mushrooms and fried bread.

‘Sautéed potatoes, madam?' she enquired.

Elaine had accepted only a sausage, egg and a slice of bacon. She noted the tired face and wondered how Karen was getting on. ‘No, thanks. Enough cholesterol already.'

Beside her the tall spare man was even more disciplined and accepted only egg and tomato. George Horrocks shrugged self-deprecatingly at the waitress's disapproval. A few more like these two and the chef'd be out of a job. He turned to the lady. ‘Where would you like to sit, Mrs Stalker?'

‘Elaine, please. Where do you suggest?'

‘Why don't you take the seat facing the door? I'll join you as soon as I've shepherded the rest.'

She watched with amusement as George Horrocks deftly placed his guests exactly where he wanted them. The Asian gentleman was introduced to the PPS to the Home Office on one side, while opposite Lady Howe could be heard engaging the Heritage Minister in her long campaign to appoint more women to public bodies. Not that it had worked with any of his predecessors either.

The Industry Minister counted himself lucky to be seated next to Dr Archer; soon the two were deep in conversation about solar energy. He judged it best to keep off the ravages of Lloyd's which had ruined two parliamentary colleagues. Fortunately they had had sufficient wisdom to stand down before the bankruptcy petitions were enforced. Bit like her husband in 1974, he recalled, and wondered if any of the current losers could write.

The waitress moved unobtrusively around the table offering seconds. At the Indian gentleman's place she hesitated. You could never tell from a person's appearance: he might be a Catholic like Hari Singh at college.

‘Sausage, sir?'

Bhadeshia's first instinct was to demur but he had reckoned without Harrison's sadistic streak.

‘Oh, go on,' Harrison urged him. ‘They're very good – speciality of the hotel.'

The smell of the bacon made Bhadeshia feel nauseous but maybe a sausage would not be so bad. They were supposed to be mainly bread filler, anyway. He accepted and toyed with the obscenely shaped meat, then pretended it was a kebab, drowned it in ketchup and chewed quickly. It would not do to exhibit weakness in such a place.

‘In my home I keep two cooks,' he informed Harrison as he wiped his mouth at last. ‘One for western cooking and one for Indian. My wife's mother is still very strict.'

Harrison had not missed the Rolex watch, the heavy Cartier cufflinks, the tie-pin set with a single diamond. ‘Must be tough, having all those servants,' he concurred. ‘What did you say your name was? Jayanti? I'll call you Jay, if you don't mind. It's easier.'

Bhadeshia nodded but he had not quite finished boasting. ‘We have five staff who live in. Two do the gardens – three acres. They are relatives from the poorer side of the family. It can be a problem getting work permits, you know.'

Harrison was not about to discuss the intricacies of British immigration law. It might be departmental business but the whole point of Conference was to make other contacts, outside the suffocating sphere of government.

‘You a director of Prima, Jay?' Harrison enquired.

‘No, not at the moment. But I am willing to make investments, particularly in
forward-looking
businesses like this. It is a good company. What about you, Minister? It is wonderful that despite your busy duties you can find an hour to attend such an occasion.'

Harrison accepted without demur the undeserved praise and promotion. ‘We have to keep in touch. A private event like this can be very useful, though it is a pity that time is so limited.'

Bhadeshia pulled out a card. ‘I would be honoured if you would come and have lunch with me in London. I am interested in receiving some advice of a … slightly personal nature. Nothing unpleasant, I assure you! But I want my businesses to expand, and I want recognition for my efforts.'

Harrison inserted the card into his wallet. ‘I'll get my secretary to fix a date. I shall look forward to it.'

Elaine wondered when the more formal part of the proceedings might begin. Nobody fed anybody at Conference, ever, without at a suitable point gently tapping a glass with a fork, clearing the throat and politely requesting attention. American TV was more blatant – ‘A few words from our sponsor!' – but the principle was identical.

‘Your guests are making the most of this excellent spread, George. Thank you for inviting us.'

George Horrocks glanced at the clock. He still had a few minutes to spare.