Sheer Abandon (12 page)

“Now down there,” Marcus said, steering her out of the lobby, “oh, hello, Hugh. Nice to see you.”

“Marcus! What did you think of all that?”

“Not a lot, if you want to know. Did you speak to Duggie afterwards?”

“Yes. I’m off up there in a minute. You?”

“No. Taking this charming lady to dinner and this is my cousin, who’s playing gooseberry. Come along, Martha,” he said, steering her to the right. “Now, before we leave, one of the Pugin tiles on the floor is the wrong way round, can you spot it? Evening, Henry. You off? Wise man…Just come and look at these busts, Martha, they might amuse you; see that one of Alec Douglas-Home? They say he lost the ’64 election because he wore half-moon glasses—as you see he doesn’t have them on there. Right, we’re back in the Commons here. You can tell when you’ve changed, because of the carpets: Lords red, Commons green. The Lords have a more classy sound to summon them to Divisions as well: we have a bell, and they have a tinkle. Now look, Martha, that’s the library. A lot of people have died having sex there.”

“Really?” she said laughing.

“So it’s said. And you’re not allowed to die anywhere here, as you probably know. They get you off the premises somehow. Now, in here, this is the Pugin Room. He’s blamed for most of the decor and all that fancy wallpaper.”

They turned left, walked into a room that was so dazzling, she literally blinked. With its glorious view of the river, the walls and ceiling covered in gilt Pugin wallpaper, and a vast chandelier hovering over the centre, it was rather like the reception area of an exceptionally grand hotel, chairs and sofas arranged in groups, and what looked like elderly retainers carrying drinks on silver trays. Marcus steered them towards a table; someone stood up.

“Marcus, hello. What did you think about all that?”

“Absolute drivel. Are we really expected to appreciate it?”

“I think we are. Can I get you a drink?”

“No, no, we’re not staying long. I’m buying these young people dinner.” He sat down, waved across the room at someone else. “Evening! Nice to see you.”

“This is like going for a walk in my parents’ village,” said Martha laughing.

“This whole place is a village. Something like two thousand people work here. It has everything, a florist, post boxes, a ladies’ hairdresser. And you can get a drink here twenty-four hours a day, if you know where to look. That’s not too much like a village, I suppose. Or maybe it is. And it runs on gossip. What would you like?”

“White wine spritzer, please.” She felt oddly at home and smiled. “I like it here. I really do!”

They ate at Patrick’s, a below-ground restaurant just along the Embankment, actually called Pomegranates. “We all like it here,” said Marcus, as they settled at their table. “It’s fairly near the House and its other main benefit to political life is that it’s just next to Dolphin Square. An awful lot of MPs live there. Used to be that mistresses were kept there—but we all have to be squeaky clean these days. Although I read the other day that politicians come even lower in the public estimation than journalists. Now that
is
an indictment.”

“But you can’t be surprised,” said Martha. “Everyone feels let down, disillusioned. It’s not just your party, of course, it’s all of them.”

“You’re right, of course. Oh—hello, Janet. Good to see you. Can I introduce my cousin Richard Ashcombe, and his friend, Martha Hartley?”

Martha looked up at Janet Frean and as always when confronted by an absolutely familiar face belonging to a complete stranger felt as if she must know her. It was a nice face, not beautiful by any means, but attractive, with strong features; her hair, which was auburn, was carved into a bob. She was tall and very thin, with good legs and beautiful, slender hands. She smiled at Martha.

“Martha has some very interesting views,” said Marcus. “You should hear them.”

“I’d love to, but I can’t at the moment. I’m waiting for—ah, here he is. Evening, Nick. You know Marcus Denning, of course.”

“Sure. Evening, Marcus.” An extremely tall, rather untidy-looking young man paused by their table, smiled vaguely at Martha and Richard, then said, “Janet, I hate to sound rude, but I’ve only got half an hour. Is Chad here?”

“No, but he will be in five minutes. He just called me. Will you excuse us?” she said to Marcus. “And I’d love to hear your views sometime, Miss Hartley.”

Martha smiled at her, embarrassed. “You really don’t have to be polite. I’m sure my views are absolutely bog-standard.”

“I doubt it,” Janet Frean said, smiling at her. “You don’t look as if anything about you is bog-standard. What do you do? You’re not in this game, are you?”

“No, she’s a lawyer,” said Marcus, “partner at Sayers Wesley. Very high-powered. Anyway, enjoy your meal.”

“Thanks. Here’s Chad now. Nick, come on, let’s go to our table.”

“I met him once at some event,” said Martha, staring at Chad Lawrence. “I’m sure he wouldn’t remember me, though. And who was the Nick person?”

“Nick Marshall. Brilliant young man. Political editor of the
Sketch
. I don’t suppose you ever read it.”

“Not often, no. I always read the
Sun
and the
Mail
, and that has to do for the tabloids.”

“You should take a look at it—it’s very good. Now, are we ready to order?”

Next morning, Martha bought the
Sketch
on her way to work. Marcus was right; it was extremely good. Less predictable than the
Mail
, more serious than the
Sun
, but still lively and intelligent. There was an article by Nicholas Marshall, which she read with huge interest. Headed
IS THE
PARTY OVER
?—she liked that—it was a sober assessment of the Tories and where they were in the polls.

Despite the fact that there is much that is rotten in the state of Millbank, the Tories seem incapable of making any capital out of it. Is it really possible that, within the confines of the party, there is no one able to fight for it? One of the biggest of the Tory big beasts, now in the Lords, told me last night that if only Janet Frean (sacked from the shadow cabinet eight months ago for her over-vigorous pro-European stance) or Chad Lawrence (similarly treated as a result of his refusal to toe the party line on asylum seekers) were brought back into the front line, the opposition could rediscover some of its muscle. Which has gone very flabby.

Wanted: a Rambo (or Rambette) for the Tory Party. Before it dies on its feet.

Martha didn’t know quite enough about the political press to recognise the article for what it was—not just a piece of political comment but part of a painstakingly planned piece of propaganda for Lawrence and Frean—but she did feel a rush of excitement at having met what were clearly key people in an unfolding drama. An excitement which, she realised, the law had failed to deliver to her for some time now.

Just the same, if anyone had told her that less than a year later she would be the prospective parliamentary candidate for Binsmow, she would have assumed they were stark raving mad.

Chapter 6

         “What a pair of tossers,” said Kate, peering over her father’s shoulder at the newspaper. “Who are they?”

“Kate, that’s not a nice word.”

“Sorry, Dad. Who are they?”

“That one is Kenneth Clarke. And that one is Iain Duncan Smith.”

“So. Who are they?”

“Oh dear. Don’t they teach you anything at that school of yours? Iain Duncan Smith has just become leader of the Tory Party.”

“Why should they teach us that at school?” she said, genuinely puzzled. “What have they got to do with us?”

“Well, quite a lot in theory,” said Jim, “although it’s really rather unlikely. I hope so, anyway.”

“Me too. I don’t want anything to do with people who look like that. Is it all right for me to go to London on Saturday?”

“It depends where you’re going.”

“Oh…” Kate’s voice was vague. “You know. Around. Covent Garden, that sort of thing. I’ll be back before dark. Don’t worry. And I won’t talk to any strange drug peddlers. Or join up with any terrorists.”

“Who are you going with?”

“God! What is this? I’m only going shopping. I’m going with Sarah and Bernie and a few others. Look. I’m
fifteen
. I had no idea we were still living in the dark ages.”

“Kate—”

“I’m going anyway. And now I’m going to school. Is that all right? Or do you want to escort me there? Put me on reins or something?”

“Kate,” said Helen, “you haven’t had any breakfast—”

“I don’t want any breakfast. I feel sick. See you. Juliet, you ready? Or are you having a second bowl of fibre, like the good little girl you are?”

“No, I’m ready,” said Juliet, pushing back her chair, following Kate out into the hall. She had actually wanted a piece of toast, but she didn’t want to be left alone with her parents after Kate had gone. Kate would accuse her of taking their side against her.

They walked down the street together, Juliet frantically checking what was in her satchel as they went.

“God, they are just so ridiculous,” said Kate. “I mean, I don’t know anyone who has to ask permission to go out shopping. Do you?”

“Well, no,” said Juliet, “but it’s not just shopping, is it? Not to Dad.”

“What does that mean? You think I’m going to meet up with some boys and start smoking spliffs or something?”

“Of course not. Don’t be stupid. I suppose he thinks you’re going to hang around the streets, as he puts it, and meet people he doesn’t know—”

“Thank God!”

“And get in with a bad lot. Oh, Kate, don’t look at me like that, I’m only telling you what he thinks. I think it’s stupid too, of course I do.”

Kate sighed. Then she said, “It’s all because of my mother, I suppose. He’s afraid I’m going to turn out really badly like her. Get pregnant, end up on the streets.”

“I—I suppose that might have something to do with it,” said Juliet reluctantly. “It really is stupid, because he doesn’t know she ended up on the streets. She might be some terribly successful person by now. He just doesn’t know.”

“Nor do I. None of us do.” Kate’s voice was heavy suddenly. “God, I wish I did. I wish I knew something about her. Just something. What she looked like—”

“Well, you do know that,” said Juliet, struggling to ease her mood. “A bit. I mean, she’s probably tall and slim and blond, with curly hair like yours—”

“Not necessarily. Your hair isn’t like Mum’s, you’ve got brown hair.”

“Mouse, you mean,” said Juliet.

“Well, it was you who said it. You’re not a bit like her altogether, much more like Dad; you’ve got brown eyes and his sort of pale skin. I might be the same, I might be like my dad. My mother might be a tiny round little person, with grey hair in a bun.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s about the worst thing, you know. Not having the faintest idea what she’s like. Sometimes I look at people on the bus, for instance, and I think that woman sits like I do, with her legs crossed quite high up, maybe she’s my mum. I have absolutely no idea and no way of finding out. It’s like being—oh, I don’t know. Like I didn’t come from anywhere. Like I just fell to earth and Mum and Dad picked me up.”

“Like Superman,” said Juliet and giggled. “Sorry, Kate. I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s horrid for you. I don’t know what I’d do. Are you still looking for her?”

“Of course. But I’m giving it a rest for a while.” Her voice was suspiciously vague; Juliet knew that tone. It meant Kate was doing anything but giving it a rest.

“Well,” she said, “If you want me to help in any way…”

“Thanks,” said Kate, “but no thanks. Look, there are your poncey friends. I’m off. See you tonight, Jools.”

It had been Sarah who’d had the idea. She’d thought about the problem, and come up with something sensible. That was the whole thing about Sarah, Kate thought. She was a real friend, always there for you, and it had been her idea to advertise in the paper.

“They all have these—what do you call them, yeah, personal ads. Why don’t you try that?”

“What would I say?” Kate’s voice was doubtful.

“Something like ‘If you abandoned a baby at Heathrow airport in August 1986 get in touch with me, your daughter.’”

“What? And give my mobile number?”

“No! They have these box numbers; people write in. You might get some nuts calling up otherwise. You have to be careful, Kate. Lot of funny people out there.”

She’d composed her ad very carefully. “Please help,” it said. “I’m looking for my mother. She left me at Heathrow airport in August 1986, and I really want to find her.”

The next decision was which paper. Her mother might live anywhere from Land’s End to John O’Groats, so it would have to be one of the nationals. Her parents took the
Guardian
and might see it; none of the papers she liked seemed to have such columns. So it was
The Times
or the
Telegraph
. She had bought a copy of each and studied them; she couldn’t imagine that anyone who had been her mother and done what she had would read papers like them—but of course she didn’t know that.

Her mother might be young—well, not so young now, about thirty-something—or she might be much older. She might be married and she might not, she might be married to Kate’s father and she might be married to someone else; she might have other children. That hurt more than anything, the thought that other children were with her mother, being loved and looked after by her and going shopping with her and being cooked nice food by her, knowing she was their mother, knowing where they belonged, but having no idea at all that they had a sister who could claim a place in their family, who had every right to it, more than them, actually, since she had been there first.

She had never forgotten the moment when she had first seen her birth certificate. She was ten, just beginning to find that it all really mattered, and she had stood there, staring at it, reading the words “Mother: unknown, Father: unknown,” feeling more alone than she could ever imagine, alone and absolutely uprooted, torn out of the ground and flung down like a weed. Even in the morning she had woken up with a pain in her heart that she could actually feel, physically. And all she had wanted, ever since, was just to know who her mother was, and why she had done what she had.

Sarah’s idea hadn’t worked. She had called
The Times
and given them the wording—it had been so hard that, hearing her voice saying: “Please help, I’m looking for my mother,” but it seemed to be going all right, and then the woman had said did she know their terms? Eleven pounds a line, plus VAT. Which came to nearly sixty pounds. Sixty! It might as well be six hundred.

Shaking, Kate rang off. Sixty quid! How was she going to get that? If only she had a Saturday job, like Sarah. Then she could earn it. She felt her eyes suddenly blurring. Whichever way she went, her path was blocked. There seemed some conspiracy to keep her from ever finding her mother.

They were sitting in a history lesson, when Sarah suddenly turned round, her face radiant.

“Kate!” she hissed. “What about the Web?” Kate frowned, her face a question mark. “You know, the Web. The Internet. Thought of looking there?”

It was actually a good idea. She would go to the library after school and see what the Web had to offer.

She typed in “missing persons” and waited; a long, long list of organisations came up on the screen: “People Found,” “Missing Persons Throughout the World,” “Find Anyone.”

Sarah was a genius. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

She went for “Find Anyone.”

“Lost persons for $7.95 instantly,” it said.

Her heart started to thud: $7.95 for your mother. Not bad.

Half an hour later, she left the library, filled with rage. At herself, this time. She’d been really, really dumb—again. Whatever had made her think she was going to find anything this way? It was the old problem: she didn’t know enough even to start. Every site said things like “All you need is a first and last name,” or “If you only have a name to go on, click here for more options.” One organisation told her that if she searched by name only, she would get too many matches. Too many! How about one?

“Good luck,” it said, “and enjoy your reunion with that special someone.”

If only. She went home, angrier than ever.

After a while, she stopped being angry and felt the old misery and loneliness descend on her instead. It was all very well, her parents telling her how much they loved her, and Juliet saying she did, too; the fact remained that her mother, the person who had given birth to her, had thrown her aside, as casually as if she was a skirt she didn’t like, just walked away from her and never came back. Not even to check she was all right.

Of course the woman would at least know she’d been found; she would have read the papers. And maybe that was enough for her. She didn’t want to know if her daughter was well, or happy, or who was looking after her, or what she was like as she began to get a bit older. She had just—wiped her out. The more Kate thought about it, the worse she felt: that the person who should love her most in the world, who should care about her the most, had absolutely no interest in her at all. It was a horrible, hideous thought. It made her feel worthless. If your own mother couldn’t be bothered with you, for God’s sake, why should anyone else?

Of course, her mother might be going round too, looking at girls of about fifteen or sixteen, wondering if they were her daughter. She wouldn’t know where to start, either. Only at least she could try the adoption agencies; she could try the missing persons lines and Web sites herself. It wouldn’t be nearly so difficult for her, they wouldn’t keep telling her she wasn’t legally of an age to make such enquiries, or demanding impossible sums of money to advertise in the paper. She could do it easily if she wanted to.

The simple fact was that she didn’t. She just didn’t want to know. Bitch! Horrible, hideous, selfish cow. One thing Kate was quite certain of: if she did ever find her mother now, she would hate her. Absolutely hate her. And make very sure she knew it, too.