The Image in the Water (11 page)

He prided himself on punctuality, and was irritated to be held up as he left No. 10. Ladies, and in particular perhaps prime ministers' widows, should not be kept waiting. But the First Minister of Scotland wanted to speak to him on the telephone. The FMS, formerly a Labour Lord Provost of Glasgow, commanded a truly municipal flow of words. There was a tradition – new, like so many in British life – that the First Minister had direct access to No. 10. Peter Makewell knew the man to be worthy, but was irritated by his continuous unwillingness to grasp the depth of the irritation that the Scots were arousing by their voluble demands on Whitehall and at Westminster. As he took the mobile phone in the outer hall of No. 10 he guessed that Mackay would be complaining in some form or other about Joan Freetown, and so it proved. She had refused to see him to discuss compensation for the move of the National Savings Bank from Glasgow to Newcastle.

‘She'll not even speak with me on the telephone. As you know, Prime Minister, we Scots are slow to anger, and for myself I'm told I have a reputation as a man of few words. But you'll understand that the dignity of my office may compel me to break silence if the Chancellor continues this discourtesy.'

There had never been any question of silence. The First Minister had been voluble on the subject of the National Savings Bank ever since Budget Day. But the way he phrased the complaint showed Peter Makewell that there was a personal edge to it, which could perhaps be softened. He did not want a great row with Scotland at this moment. He beckoned to Patrick Vaughan who, after six years as a private secretary, was good at hovering at the right time and the right place. ‘Tell the Chancellor's office, would you, that I hope she will telephone the First Minister personally about the Savings
Bank? She can say that as a concession to himself there will be some job compensation for Glasgow, and then tell him in strict confidence what was agreed at EDX yesterday.'

Patrick mounted a mild protest, so that he could tell the Cabinet secretary later that he had done so. ‘There would be a risk of a leak in the Scottish press, Prime Minister, before the announcement is made in the Commons.'

‘Not a risk, Patrick, a certainty.' The Prime Minister put on a heavy black London overcoat against the cold March night. ‘But that will not, I think, be the first time … or the end of the world.'

As the door of No. 10 closed, the Prime Minister climbed into his car, and the principal private secretary retreated to his lair. Both had the same thought, which both found new and agreeable. Peter Makewell was picking up the job fast – just as he was about to give it up. If he had allowed himself to continue like this, he would come within range of Simon Russell's formidable reputation for subtle traffic control. But, of course, within a few weeks he would be gone.

Patrick Vaughan knew nothing of Sir Martin Redburn's mad suggestion that morning. Mad indeed, thought Peter, as his car edged out through the gates into Whitehall. So mad that he had genuinely forgotten about it all day. No need to give it further thought. He resolved in particular not to mention it to Louise Russell that evening.

The Scottish kerfuffle and red traffic lights at the foot of Whitehall, by the Abbey, and again in Victoria Street made him five minutes late. The proprietor of Il Gran Paradiso was at the door, smiling in the Italian manner, warm but not obsequious.

‘The
signora
is already here,' he said, with a touch of pleased intrigue in his voice. But as soon as Peter Makewell entered the restaurant it was clear that all was not well. Louise was there, certainly, standing not far from the entrance talking to the protection officer who had gone to the restaurant in advance. Her cheeks were flushed.

‘The Prime Minister thought …' said the protection officer.

Louise knew him well because for six months he had protected Simon Russell. ‘I'm sorry, George, it just won't do.'

What on earth could be the matter? Looking through the restaurant, Peter Makewell could see at the far end the triangle of unoccupied tables as planned. To him they looked crisp and inviting. The rest of the room was fairly full and, of course, knowing eyes began to turn towards Louise and himself.

‘I'm sorry, Peter, I'm really sorry, but it won't do,' she repeated, as soon as he reached her. He withdrew his plan for a light kiss on the cheek. By now the whole world seemed to be looking at them. Damn.

‘It's that young man.' She did not actually point, but nodded to a table adjoining the empty white triangle. ‘I'll explain later, but I'm afraid I can't sit as close as that to David Alcester.'

Peter Makewell had not recognised Alcester from the back, but now he turned his head towards them. Sweep of fair hair too low across the forehead, orthodox English face of the charming variety, now lit with genuine surprise turning to insincere welcome. He was entertaining, or more likely being entertained by, a lady journalist from the
Daily Mail
gossip column.

‘This is a pleasant surprise. Come and join us,' said Alcester, getting up and moving to join Louise and the Prime Minister
in the centre of the restaurant. His legs were rather too short for his torso, which already carried a few pounds of excess weight. Even at this early stage of his political career he preferred to be photographed behind a desk or cross-legged in a chair. He spoke as if he were host in charge of the entire restaurant. But he was addressing a void. Louise had already bustled the Prime Minister and the two protection officers out into the street. A cold drizzle had set in, which matched Peter Makewell's gloom. A well-prepared evening was collapsing in ruins. He silently cursed his protection officers for not having investigated the other diners at Il Gran Paradiso. Unfairly, since they were not employed as his political or social chaperons. Where to go now? It would be tactless to take Louise back to No. 10 only weeks after she had left it, and anyway that would mean rushed scrambled eggs from an indignant housekeeper. The Savoy, he supposed, though …

But Louise took control. ‘I know the steak house at the top of the street. The manager worked for Government Hospitality long ago.'

Within minutes they were seated round a scarlet plastic tablecloth drinking the steak house Rioja, and contemplating a menu that consisted entirely of different weights (eight, twelve and sixteen ounces) of rump, sirloin or fillet of beef. Every helping was supplied automatically with chips.

‘Just the place,' said Louise. ‘The young love it.'

Not at all the place for Peter Makewell, who was not young. He examined the pop stars on the walls, trying to regain calm. He was uneasy because there was no table free for the two protection officers – they had been forced to retreat into the March drizzle. He had thought of asking them to share the table with Louise and himself, but that was not compatible
with the style of the occasion and in any case she might object. And having been a protected person only for these few weeks, he still felt awkward with his protectors, particularly at the thought of upsetting them.

‘He wasn't wearing his trousers, that was the point,' said Louise, examining the menu.

Peter Makewell, thinking of protection officers, was baffled, as she no doubt intended.

‘That young man. His name is Alcester. He's an MP, you ought to know him. I do not think he has actually seduced Julia, but when I came home early from the studio he was about to try. This was ten days ago. Bad legs, too, podgy.'

Peter Makewell remained baffled. He was childless.

‘It played like an old-fashioned farce. I was shouting. He must get out and never come to Highgate again. He had trouble with the zip of his trousers. I think I'll have eight ounces of fillet. He was in such a hurry, he left in his socks. He thought I was going to hit him. I still have the shoes. Cheaper than they look from a distance.'

‘And Julia?' This was not at all as he had expected or wanted, but he had to follow along her track.

‘She was giggling at the other end of the sofa. She had all her clothes on. Whether she was laughing at him or at me I couldn't tell. Probably both. After he had gone, she clapped for a couple of seconds, she said, “Oh, Mummy,” kissed me, and went up to bed as if nothing had happened. Since then I've asked no questions. I might get bad answers. I don't think she's seen him since. Girls don't like men they've seen in ridiculous positions, particularly if they helped them get there.'

Louise paused, and for the first time he could look at her
properly. The simple dark grey dress without jewellery contrasted with the flamboyance of her dark auburn hair and heavy makeup. He did not know her well enough to be sure if the simplicity of dress resulted from natural taste or recent widowhood. In either case it was right for the steak-house, while he felt pompously overdressed. He undid the jacket buttons of his dark blue suit.

Louise continued to talk to him as if he were an old friend.

‘I miss Simon, you know, but for the little things mainly: the cup of tea he brought me in the morning, the way he remembered my birthday three days late. Why not for the big things? I often ask myself that. We had a long life together full of travel, crises, grand occasions, big hotels, country cottages, talk and love. It was a long good chapter, and it came to a natural close. There was not much more to be said or done.'

‘But you are still young, and …'

But ‘beautiful' could not come out. The harsh house Rioja was carrying him some distance but not that far.

‘Now there is just an unexciting epilogue, a dim page or two to wrap things up. A trip to my studio every day, perhaps even an exhibition of sculptures next year, a few parties, an occasional photograph in the glossies, gradually more days in our Somerset cottage, the horizon comfortably narrowing down to the village fête and work on kneelers for the church … or could there be a whole new chapter?'

‘A new chapter, surely.' This was more than gallantry.

‘But the new chapter would be called Julia. I begin to think that's a book of its own, her book and not mine.' She paused. ‘Physically speaking, Julia lives in Highgate. She sleeps there most nights, and manages a good breakfast. But since Simon died her real life's elsewhere, and I'm not part of it any more.
I provide the washing machine and the scrambled eggs, with toast.'

The steaks arrived, with seven different kinds of mustard on a tray. In his bath an hour ago Peter Makewell had imagined a conversation that started with the trustees' proposals for Chequers and moved, slowly – say, over the coffee – to more personal matters. He was inadequate to cope with this reversal of the natural order.

Unexpectedly Louise guided him on to his own track. ‘Tell me, why did you ask me to this delicious dinner?'

He had to admit that his fillet steak was worthy, though not to be compared with the creamy risotto he would have been eating in Il Gran Paradiso had David Alcester kept his trousers on. ‘You may remember that the Chequers trustees have a scheme—'

She laughed, having taken two full glasses of the Rioja. ‘Prime Minister, Prime Minister, what are you saying? A new rose garden in exchange for a medium-rare steak? You'd be getting a bargain.'

He could only plough on. ‘I was told that you had objected – or, rather, that Simon had objected on your behalf.'

‘Objected, objected … of course I objected. But I objected to the trustees, not the scheme. They're a dreary lot of bankers and lawyers pretending to understand gardens, trees and the countryside. It was my duty to twist their tails.'

‘Then as regards the scheme …'

‘I've no objection at all. Norma Major deserves a statue – she did an excellent job with that book of hers. And that wilderness of dull red roses certainly needs breaking up. Tell the trustees I fought like a tiger, called them all sorts of evil names, but by sheer charm you won me over.'

‘You're laughing at me.'

‘Certainly. Prime ministers are there to be teased. Do you like Chequers?'

‘To be honest, no. I hardly go there.'

‘But you can't go back to Perthshire every weekend. And Downing Street is hardly … But, I forgot, you're still Foreign Secretary, you still have Chevening.'

Yes, indeed – Chevening, elegant Queen Anne brick, soft in the light of a summer evening, or bright with the hillside frosty white on a Boxing Day morning, his study looking over the lake and a crowd of geese promenading like ambassadors on the lawn. Since his wife had died Chevening had gained over Perthshire in his affection. By comparison Chequers was dark, cluttered, dull and oversupplied with history.

‘Do you enjoy being Prime Minister?'

There was a connection between the houses and the jobs that went with them, but it was a bit too abrupt for Peter's taste. ‘Not at all. The work is hard, endless and often uncongenial. I can't think how Simon put up with it for so long.'

‘He loved it. It became his life. He went on for too many years, but you've only just begun. You ought to stay.'

‘Stay? What do you mean? I only took it on as a—'

‘A caretaker? Yes. But sometimes the caretaker inherits the house. You'd be better than either lazy Roger Courtauld or that shrill Chancellor of yours.'

Obviously Louise did not bother with news bulletins, or indeed newspapers. He told her of Roger's withdrawal from the leadership contest.

‘Well, even more so … What are people like me to do faced with Joan Freetown?' Her voice softened. ‘She was good to us, very good to Julia and me, when Simon died in her
spare bedroom – but that's different from welcoming her as Prime Minister. You should stand. You've no good reason not to.'

‘You're the second person today to say that.'

‘Who was the first?' She was surprised. Later, much later, she told him that up to that point she had been merely teasing him.

‘Martin Redburn.' And, contrary to his clear resolution at bathtime, he told her of his morning meeting.