A Woman's Place (7 page)

‘I hope you won't find the discussion too boring,' he began mildly.

‘Why should I find it boring? Heavens, I hope you're not the sort of chap that assumes we ladies can't talk shop.' Her eyes mocked him, but with a steely edge. His heart sank.

‘No – I'm sorry. Oh, darn it, Elaine, forgive me. I've spent so much time with businessmen – and I mean men: there are no ladies on our board – that I tend to slip back into small talk when there's a woman around.'

She relented. ‘Look at it this way. If I were to say to you, “I hope you don't find all this politics boring”, you'd feel patronised, wouldn't you? You'd ask yourself what kind of idiot said that, knowing that you'd come in the first place because you were curious about the subject. Same with me.'

He chose to misunderstand, slightly. ‘But I find politics fascinating,' he answered. ‘The way you handled your speech in that awful debate, for example … admirable. Now I'm no longer a Deputy Lord Lieutenant I can get involved, a little. But I haven't the foggiest idea where to begin.'

Not another who wants to be an MP, Elaine thought grimly. He had left it a bit late to start. Whatever maturity the job required had to be found in men under forty, for that was the preference of female-dominated selection committees. She indicated MPs around the table who talked with animation while eating steadily as was their wont. ‘You're not thinking…?'

An opportunity to follow up this brief encounter suggested itself at once. ‘I don't know what I'm thinking, Elaine, but a spot of advice wouldn't go amiss. How about meeting one evening – back in London? Or am I not allowed to ask an MP for a date?'

George was as startled at his own brazenness as she was. He bit his lip as she coloured, but did not retract. There was a sadness about her, a sudden slump of the shoulders, but it lasted barely an instant before she perked up and smiled at him.

‘Oh, why not? We can talk about your ambitions, George, and you can explain to me whether in the wonderful world of satellites and cables the licence fee still has a future. And whether it's possible for women to be taken seriously, ever, in this dotty country of ours. You're on.'

Roger Dickson waited quietly, his wife at his side, behind the platform until it would be time to lead the Foreign Office team into the spotlights' glare. The podium seemed to have grown again. Its curved blue expanses spread out into the auditorium a few feet more each year, so that there were ever fewer rows of adulatory audience and ever more managed space to fill the television screens. In truth the event was no longer for staunch supporters from Tunbridge Wells or Trafford. Its main purpose, to which those retired majors were mere adjuncts, was a criticism-free opportunity for Ministers to shine; any pretence that it might be otherwise had long been abandoned.

At the signal enthusiastic applause broke out. Resolutely he climbed the steps and made a great show of introducing his team and their spouses.

Foreign affairs were different. By its nature fewer of the delegates had any knowledge of the subject matter, but to a man and woman they started from the viewpoint that, whatever was happening in the unknown terrain of ‘abroad', British was best. To almost every remark Roger had added a
patriotic rider; and, as expected, that produced unfailingly loud cheers.

The image was all. Behind him huge multi-screen monitors enlarged his face to twenty feet across. He held himself upright, head uplifted, the silvery streaks in his dark hair shining in the light like a halo. As he spoke he glanced half down at the tilted glass stands which reflected the text off a horizontal monitor and enabled him to speak without apparently reading from notes at all. ‘Sincerity screens', they were called, introduced by Ronald Reagan and rapidly adopted worldwide. Roger hankered after his early days when he would speak with no aids at all; but that would never do here, not when a slip of the tongue could create an international crisis.

‘We should be particularly proud of our Prime Minister's success in Europe,' he intoned loyally. The response was muted. Most of the audience would have preferred to pull Britain out of the European Union altogether.

‘We have stood firm against the joint efforts of both France and Germany to dictate to us. We vetoed the appointment of the Franco-German choice as President of the Commission, and we were right to do so. That is what we mean by being at the heart of Europe. Yet what would our opponents do?
They would dismantle the veto entirely
.'

This bombast produced the expected roar of acquiescence. Roger pushed to the back of his mind the knowledge that Margaret Thatcher had also used the veto in 1985 against the first-choice appointment to the presidency of the Commission. The compromise candidate Jacques Delors came to symbolise all she hated about ‘Europe'. In truth, there were no anti-federalists in the frame for Brussels's top job, but it was wiser to conceal that unpalatable fact from British Tories for a while yet.

Nor was he about to warn them that the larger the Union the less powerful was any single nation within it. One out of nine – the ratio when Britain joined – was not the same as one out of fifteen or twenty. Since the British were so bad at maths it would take them a while to work it out. Yet one alone was the worst of all.

Then, quite suddenly, it was over. As he resumed his seat, Roger saw with pleasure that the audience had risen to their feet and were cheering enthusiastically. The platform party, expressions ecstatic, were also on their feet, and were turning to him. A standing ovation was expected for a senior Minister, especially one whose elevation in the recent reshuffle had attracted such positive comment; but there was genuine warmth in this applause and it seemed to be going on for rather a long time. People were stamping their feet, chanting what sounded like ‘Rog-er! Rog-er!' Up in the gallery a group started singing ‘For he's a jolly good fellow'. He shrugged imperceptibly; he had not realised when he began the long process of writing it that the strongly patriotic tone of the speech would meet with such approval. Had he been more candid that might not have been the case.

With a modest, almost shy air he rose and acknowledged the noise. Enjoy the adulation while it lasts. In due course there would be a price to pay. He wondered, chilled, what it might be.

‘What is it, dear? Can I pass you the marmalade? Or would you like more toast?'

The Prime Minister found himself looking into the anxious eyes of his spouse across the breakfast table in their private suite and realised that he must have been staring into space for several minutes. She was not yet dressed but was sitting in a feather-trimmed pink dressing gown pulled well up to the neck. He knew with absolute certainty that the feathered mules on her small pink feet matched the gown exactly.

With reluctance he dragged himself into the present, folded the
Daily Telegraph
neatly as was his wont and placed it by the side of his plate. Then he studiously wiped his knife on the remains of a slice of toast and when it was as clean as he could make it laid it straight on the plate, pointing at her. He put the toast in his mouth and chewed it thoughtfully. Then, lacking anything else to play with, he folded his hands in his lap.

‘Something is the matter.' There was alarm in her voice. ‘I haven't been married to you all
these years without knowing it. You've been on another planet for the last few days. What is it? Is there anything I can do? Is it my fault?'

‘No, of course not,' he answered testily. As if anything his wife might get up to would penetrate his world of high politics – except when she made her occasional forays into the public eye. Like that silly interview she'd given for the village newspaper, believing that her unflattering comments on members of his Cabinet would go no further than her local newsagent.

He wondered how he might break it to her and almost decided not to try. But she was, under all the frills, a worthy sort who had backed him steadily since his early days as a Young Conservative. He recalled her faithfully clutching scissors and umbrella in the rain as he shinned up lamp-posts to fix posters the year he was first elected as a councillor. She had abandoned her own career to make a home and had, virtually single-handed, brought up two fine children who had his good looks and her solemn self-protection. Her lack of depth was hardly her fault; that was how he had made her, how their life had forced her to be. There were moments when he understood exactly how Harold Wilson had felt about his wife. The popularity of these women with the general public was inexplicable.

He took a deep breath and began. ‘How would you feel…'

Betts ran towards the only spare phone, elbowed the
Standard
's stringer out of the way and trod hard on the foot of that stupid woman from
Today
. Bloody hell. Speeches over, he had been expecting to do no more than time the standing ovation – would it be seven minutes or eight? As long as Maggie's or (God forbid) longer? Tories must hold practice sessions at the bar of local Conservative clubs, timing each other and swapping tips.

Now this, totally out of the blue. Bang would go the whole weekend; he could kiss goodbye to a stroll by the sea with that smart little number from Channel 4. Both of them would be putting in a packet of overtime, but not with each other.

‘Clear the front page.'

He'd always wanted to say that. The voice at the other end blustered but the
Globe
's deputy editor was brusque. ‘I'm dictating. Shut up and listen.' Betts could hear the chatter of Press Association tapes and calls to reporters. His voice was suddenly magnified at the other end as the phone was connected into the paper's public address system. At desks all over the
Globe
building heads were raised, pens poised, eyes alert.

‘Today at the Conservative Party Conference the Prime Minister dropped the biggest bombshell of his career. As delegates prepared to deliver the traditional standing ovation – expected to last six or seven minutes as usual – a dramatic change came over the man who has led the nation for the last six years.

‘In a shock departure from his standard text, in which he was to call for national renewal and a revival of Tory values in the wake of the election results, instead he stopped and appeared for a moment to have been taken ill. A wave of concern rippled around the conference hall. Men and women rose to their feet.

‘Then he took out a large handkerchief. All concerned could then see that he was, in fact, weeping.

‘As a hush fell, there came the sensational announcement. He would be standing down as Prime Minister, and would ask the Chief Whip to start the procedure for choosing his successor as soon as Parliament returns.

‘He wanted, he said, to finish while still at the top. After all this time, he hoped to be allowed to lead a normal life with his wife and children. After winning two general elections against the odds, having seen Europe accepting his Euro-sceptical point of view, with the economy in good heart,
inflation down, the deficit under control and the pound standing comfortably at just under two Deutschmarks, he felt that the time was ripe to make way for a younger man.

‘Speculation is now rife…'

Room 14 on the committee corridor was crammed to overflowing. Row upon row of dark-suited men jostled and chattered loudly like a flock of starlings. At the back of the panelled room and around the door, latecomers squeezed to get inside, their reflections distorted in the bulbous brass of the chandeliers. Above the Members' entrance a portrait of a stem-faced Cromwell glared while at the far end an exquisitely sad Charles I warned it would all end in tears.

Even the whips present could not conceal their eagerness. They could gain the most whatever the outcome. Soon several would be promoted to office, there to enjoy the modest appurtenances of power – the two-year-old ministerial Rover 416, the middle-aged lady chauffeur, the car phone paid from public funds and the overfilled red boxes, under the leadership of a new Prime Minister.

Sir Tom Reynolds, the chairman of the 1922 Committee, cleared his throat and basked in a delightful aura of self-importance. His long-hoped-for knighthood was secure. One or two worthy directorships had been recorded in the Register of Members' Interests. He would himself retire in due course to sincere plaudits from colleagues and constituents. Life was orderly, prosperous, fulfilling – and too dreadfully predictable for words.

A leadership contest, on the other hand, offered fabulous opportunities for intrigue and
king-making
. To date he had been wined and dined by all the potential candidates. None was present now, though in a few minutes, in an innovation he dearly hoped might become standard practice – thus inscribing his name for ever in the annals of the parliamentary party – they would be invited inside, one at a time, to deliver a personal message to the assembled troops. To handle a meeting of such charged emotions would require skills of the highest order: the chairman knew he was up to it.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! Let's have a bit of quiet.'

A large glass ashtray was banged in sympathy by a nearby vice-chairman. Modern nonsense about ‘no smoking' was not tolerated in party meetings: the pungent blue haze of several large coronas filled the air.

‘Right! Now I'll explain the procedure to you, as many won't have been here last time. To be validly nominated a candidate must have just the two names, proposer and seconder. Nominations closed at noon today and I am glad to announce' – here he paused for effect and was gratified by shouts to continue, as if he were a popular music hall comedian –'that we have three in the frame. There can be two ballots, possibly three. In the first, next Tuesday in this room, a candidate wins outright if he has an overall majority of those entitled to vote plus fifteen per cent. That means, since we have three hundred and forty-one Members, a total of two hundred and twenty-two. That's the magic number. Less than that, and we're into a second ballot the week after, in which the winner would be whoever gets an overall majority, which you'll have worked out as one hundred and seventy-one. If not, there could be a third ballot. That should be reasonably clear.'

He smiled down roguishly. ‘And, of course, canvassing is perfectly legal!'

Members tittered dutifully: campaigning and placing wagers were part of the fun. Most would hedge their bets unless taste or experience favoured one name prominently over its rivals. A PPS or junior Minister would sit on the supporters' bench for his boss and expect his reward in due course, were his man successful. Some made their choice by a process of elimination, weighing up who was too right- or left-wing, too radical or traditional, too pro- or anti-Europe to tolerate. Others, particularly in marginal seats, had begun to take soundings from both party workers and the drinkers down the pub: what mattered most to them was the future leader's appeal to the ordinary voter, that bulk of the mass electorate who would settle whether their MP still had a job after the next election.

‘Time to put them through their paces, I think. Alphabetical order.' The chairman nudged the nearest vice-chairman, who rose solemnly and headed for the door. Also time for a quick reminder.

‘Now, remember, this is a
private
meeting. The press are a few yards away and they'll be
panting for the least titbit. We maintain confidentiality – complete…'

The rest of his sentence was drowned in the well-orchestrated cheer as the first challenger entered the room. His head was thrown back, eyes protruding, face flushed, tie slightly crooked. He hitched up his trousers over a comfortable belly as he turned to face the assembly.

Down the corridor near the gents' toilet Jim Betts chewed on a Biro. You never knew when a Tory with a weak bladder might need to nip out and could be cornered among the urinals. Most would also be glad to relieve the tension. A few choice remarks and back inside: that wouldn't count, would it, as a leak?

Betts railed against the frustration of finding a fresh angle on the leadership contest. The broadsheets were full of serious statements from Portillo, Dickson and Clarke about ‘maintaining the position of Britain', ‘working to reduce the deficit' and ‘making society work again'. Try as he might he could not clearly distinguish these sentiments either from each other or from the marginally more grammatical promises of the Labour leader. What was the country coming to, he wondered, when the two main parties' official pronouncements were so alike – especially when their private agendas, and their activists' passions, were so far apart?

It was a long way from his own early years, in Liverpool. You knew where you were, then: against the authorities of the day, whichever political colour they might be. Not that he had been remotely aware of politics as a boy, buried in the rough dark tenements near the Anglican Cathedral where names like ‘Hope Street' served only as mockery. A strict hierarchy had operated, even at that level. You stuck to your own, but strangers from the other side of Prince's Park or Wavertree were fair game for an impromptu punch-up. Betts smiled grimly. He had been lucky, he supposed, that his first casual job on the
Liverpool Echo
had so attracted him. His erstwhile mates from the 'Pool had since been lost to sight, or if well known had acquired prison records. He had, in a sense, exchanged the violence of his youth for a particularly florid turn of phrase in a tabloid newspaper; and he loved every minute.

‘Penny for 'em, Jim.'

The friendly face of a Labour Member hove into view. Keith Quin, MP for Manchester Canalside, so enjoyed politics that even the Tory leadership contest was a magnet.

‘Who'd you prefer, then, Keith?'

Quin considered. ‘Portillo'd make our job a lot easier,' he confided. ‘That curling lip, the swagger – he may be bright but it's all a bit sinister, innit? Foreign, too, and a turncoat – his dad fought on our side in the Spanish Civil War. And he forgets – he may well be correct that there are far too many people living on benefits, but they all have votes.'

‘Don't use them though, do they? You're lucky to get a turnout of sixty per cent in your constituency for a general election. Ain't democracy wonderful?'

Quin shrugged defensively. ‘It's hard to think about voting when you've just lost your giro. Clarke would give us a lot of fun, and you always feel his heart is in the right place. Son of a miner, scholarship boy and that. But he's a bruiser: he'd cross the road to have a fight and that leaves a lot of bleedin' bodies. Not the best way to go about running the country.'

‘So … Dickson?'

‘Off the record, Jim?'

‘Sure.' Quin's opinions didn't count for much anyway.

‘He'd be good if they have the sense to choose him. It'd take a miracle to get us in next time, too.'

Ted Bampton switched on the table lamp. He motioned tiredly to the tall figure lounging on a sofa near the door, reading the
Tatler
. 

‘If that's all you can do, Derek, go and get us some McDonalds. I'm ravenous. There's one at the far end of Victoria Street. Make mine a Big Mac, double chips and a vanilla milkshake.'

Elaine stretched and rubbed a numb shoulder. ‘That'll improve your figure no end, Ted. But I'm hungry too. I'll have a black coffee and a quarter-pounder, please.'

The basement flat was littered with papers, lists, folders, notebooks, files, wire trays, empty mugs and glasses, soft drinks and beer cans, overflowing ashtrays and waste-bins, newspapers,
Who's Who
and
Dod's
and
Vacher's
and back copies of the House magazine. The curtains were half drawn against the evening air as a computer screen blinked on Bampton's desk. A laser printer in the corner hummed. The clock showed five minutes to five.

With bad grace Harrison collected orders from the flat's several other weary occupants and sloped off.

Elaine put down her notepad and came to stand behind Bampton. She peered over his shoulder at the computer listing. ‘Is our man going to win?'

Bampton impatiently pressed a button and the screen went blank. ‘Damn. I'm still not used to this.' He motioned to the young man who had entered the room with a portable television set which he plugged into the wall. ‘C'mon, Anthony, you're the expert. Answer Mrs Stalker's question.'

Elaine felt irritated that the Minister insisted on using such a distant title for her. The scruffy basement of Roger's house behind Great Peter Street, a stone's throw from the Palace of Westminster, was hardly a formal place. She knew the layout of the property better than she dared admit, after four years as the owner's lover. And she was not interested sexually in Bampton, or in Anthony York – both of whom seemed to have difficulty relating to her in a natural, unaffected way. Why couldn't they simply treat her as one of the boys?

Harrison was a different matter. Women, in his estimation, had one main function. As the woman present did not fill the bill he simply ignored her, even when regaling the assembled company with the intimate details of his previous night's conquest. Elaine found the man nauseating but the type fascinating: like the sight of a toad eating live butterflies, horrible but compulsive.

It had never occurred to her not to volunteer, even though it had meant the cancellation of two weekends' engagements. The moment after Conference broke up in such confusion she had contacted Roger's office to offer her help. Since then with a dozen others she had worked in a tireless frenzy. The two telephones and a mobile had been in constant use – the size of Roger's phone-bill did not bear thinking about. But she far preferred to be on the team – calling MPs' personal numbers, offering a chat with the candidate, parrying criticisms, hinting at dangers in the two opponents, offering what bribes and assurances were at her command and cajoling the unconvinced – to waiting at home as a mere observer.

The only difficult moments came when Roger himself was present, dressed unusually casually in a soft blue sweater and no tie. The bare flesh, so vulnerable at the neck, made her gasp inwardly and turn her head away. He was cordial but preoccupied and treated her no differently from anyone else: when he paused at the door one lunchtime on his way to persuade crusty old Sir Trevor, and thanked her, she knew he would make a point of doing the same to every single member of the team. She was nobody special. And that was how it should be.

Anthony York's tall form blocked the light. He tapped a few keys, then stood back. ‘We'll know for certain in an hour's time. But on my count he's in there with a chance. I estimate we could take a hundred and fifty, maybe a few more. That'd mean we'd be well ahead and could win on the second ballot, if not the first.'

Anthony switched on the television and found Ceefax. Together the three read the crisp text. The odds on Dickson had shortened considerably since one of the other hopefuls had made ill-judged remarks about high birth rates among lower-social-class women. However accurate, such views were regarded as too harsh and quite inappropriate in a potential leader of the nation. Elaine recalled a
similar gaffe in 1974 by Keith Joseph which had led to his withdrawal from the race to replace Ted Heath; and the virtually unknown Margaret Thatcher had stepped shyly forward.

There was just time to catch the early-evening news before heading nervously for the Commons. Through St Stephen's entrance they would step past banks of clicking cameras, up the stone stairs and ahead, then in the lift to the committee room where the chairman of the '22 Committee was to announce the result.

Of course Roger should be Prime Minister. He had all the right qualities. Even if he lost this contest he might be able to try again in future. Provided he did not disgrace himself – and repeated number-crunching indicated a respectable total – his position in the leading triumvirate of Ministers would be confirmed.

Nor, if he failed, did that mean automatic ignominy for his supporters. His lieutenants' efforts would also be recognised: the retiring Prime Minister had won accolades after his own victory by his prompt incorporation into government of members of the defeated camps, on the sensible grounds of party unity. Elaine hoped the same would happen, at least for the hard-working Bampton and for Anthony, if not for Harrison – or herself.

Police Officer Robin Bell took his place beside the desk in Upper Waiting Hall, folded his burly arms and gazed with amused condescension at the scrum developing a few yards away. After a quarter of a century in the House he thought he'd seen everything. He turned to his partner, a young woman officer.

‘If their constituents could see them now…' A tactful man, Bell left the rest unsaid.

The policewoman, from a younger generation, pulled a face. ‘Best leave 'em to it,' she murmured.

The corridor behind them was jammed with reporters waving notebooks and pulling at sleeves. At the same moment nearly two hundred MPs were trying to cram into Room 14, whose narrow doors were blocked by bodies already inside. A television crew appeared – which was not permitted – and despite protests started filming aggressively. The atmosphere began to turn ugly.