A Parliamentary Affair (5 page)

The words came out in a nervous rush. She was terrified that she was saying the wrong things. Andrew never seemed to listen and had rather given up helping her, particularly in the last few months when he had been so busy. It was easier to talk to another woman, especially one who might understand.

‘There are moves afoot to try to change the hours,’ Elaine explained gently. All the debate about the Commons’ crazy hours, starting at 2.30 p.m. and frequently trailing on past midnight, had been about helping women MPs, particularly those with children. The benefits to male Members and their families had been ignored: in this workplace, New Men were thin on the ground.

Elaine doubted whether a crèche inside Westminster would encourage a single extra selection committee to risk a female candidate, but it would be a gesture. Improving the working of the
Commons had her whole-hearted support for other reasons. A House which met at sensible hours might take a more sensible view of life. It might even be efficient and achieve more.

Tessa Muncastle pulled out a handkerchief and agitatedly blew her nose. The skin around her nostrils was red and sore. Without realising it she now put her finger on why change was unlikely.

‘I hope they do change the system, though Andrew is so engrossed in politics that I doubt if he would come home any earlier even when there are no votes. Don’t get me wrong – I do support him and I love him very much. I am sorry: I shouldn’t be going on like this, but…’ She faltered and attempted a watery smile. ‘You caught me at a weak moment.’

Elaine had enough difficult cases waiting on her desk. This one was for Andrew: better not interfere. Nevertheless her instinct to help reasserted itself.

‘You should think of the political life as a bug that has invaded the bloodstream – for life, usually. We don’t choose to be this way. Some are born with it in their genes or drink it with their mother’s milk. With Sir Edward as granddad I expect Andrew is a bit like that. It must be harder for a person with a famous name – so much is expected of them. Barney here will be under similar pressures. But most of us were bitten long ago – at university, or listening to a great speech, or inspired by a leader like Margaret Thatcher, or jolted into action by, say, Vietnam or the fall of the Berlin Wall. The point is, we can’t help it. It takes us over completely. It’s no accident that our ambitions sound vague and platitudinous to outsiders – “wanting to give people a better life”, the sort of things we say in interviews – for what really drives us is the passion of politics itself. And it’s like malaria: once it’s in the blood the infection is lifelong. We suffer if we can’t do it. You, our families, suffer if we do.’

Barney was now carefully wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. A stubborn bit of chocolate on his cheek threatened to wreck his efforts. Elaine leaned over and solemnly removed the offending crumb with her forefinger; engaging the child’s fascinated gaze, slowly she popped it in her own mouth and smacked her lips.

‘Now, young man, I have other people to attend to on the Terrace. And, I suspect, it’s time to take your mother home and look after her. She’s had a long, exciting day. I hope you’ll forgive me.’

Barney nodded silently, and shook hands. For the rest of his long life he would be in love with Elaine Stalker.

The Terrace runs almost the whole 800-foot length of the building, its classic elegance disfigured by green and white marquees used as lucrative dining facilities. The Thames is high here, deep and green and greasy, with floating jetsam. Barges chug slowly to Tilbury and the Essex marshes followed by screaming seagulls. Pleasure craft crammed with tourists heave and toss in their own swell, amplified snatches of cockney commentary bouncing off the carved parapets. The client or constituent or cousin taken for drinks in summer on the Terrace enjoys an unforgettable experience, which also serves to confirm the host’s evident superiority to the common herd.

So often had Elaine been shown around that it was a pleasure now to take Marcus Carey’s arm, point out the kiosk with chocolates for his wife and settle him with a proprietorial air at a wooden table near the bar. To say Marcus was a friend from university days would be implying both too much and too little. He had been one of the crowd; brainy enough to be more than a hanger-on, yet too pliant, too eager to please, to join the leading group.

But there was something different about Marcus Carey. His name was being mentioned in higher places. He had been appointed to NHS health trusts and authorities and local government reviews. A period on the BBC’s General Advisory Committee had followed. The list of appointments had grown longer and more illustrious and threatened to prevent him earning a living, so much time did they take. He had met, courted and married a local medical student. Marcus Carey, of medium height, slim, clean shaven and well spoken, was not only well educated, intelligent, pleasant,
ambitious and a loyal party member – all of which made him useful. There was one unavoidable aspect that made him truly special.

For Marcus Carey was black.

Very black. Heavy lips and flat nose and crinkly hair: not for him any Michael Jackson metamorphosis. That, however, was as far as his blackness went. Not a trace of an Afro-Caribbean accent revealed his ancestry. All the body language was faultlessly white, middle-class and English. Now he sat on the Terrace of the House of Commons in summer sunshine, stretched out his legs and sipped a Pimm’s. Surrounded by people for whom politics was no longer a hobby but a way of life, Marcus was exhilarated.

Politeness intervened and he turned to his hostess. A spell in Dublin on secondment to the Anglo-Irish talks had equipped him to talk animatedly and with enthusiasm.

‘You should get involved in Irish business, Elaine. It needs people here, people with no axe to grind, to take an interest. It’s about time that mainland parties and politicians made a bigger effort. The biggest problems there aren’t sectarian but economic.’

‘Hold on. You’re not going to get new private investment over there as long as the security situation is dodgy,’ Elaine replied. ‘How many people did the bastards murder last month? In all honesty, how could I start persuading businesses in my constituency to open a branch in Armagh or County Tyrone?’

‘Things are better than they were.’ Marcus started quoting figures at her. ‘And, Elaine, the only group that benefits from a continuation of problems there is the IRA. It wants to wreck the peace talks. We want to promote them. You could do yourself a lot of good.’

‘I could get myself killed, more like. But let me have some of those stats you were quoting and I’ll look at them. Now, Marcus, it was kind of you to write when I won my seat. At college you were thinking of a political career too. Is that still on the cards?’

There was a moment’s silence as the man looked wistfully at the carved facade above them. A look of pain crossed the dark eyes. ‘What do you think, Elaine? Of course I do. But for me it will not be easy.’

‘Have you asked anyone for advice?’

Marcus shifted. ‘My own MP, Martin Clarke, of course, but he was … well, let’s just say unfriendly. And I’ve talked to John Taylor, who fought Cheltenham. He’s a decent sort but he couldn’t help me himself. That’s why I wanted a word with you.’

Elaine hid a feeling of unease. ‘You’re effectively writing your CV right now. You’ve done well so far – better than me at the same stage. You need to become better known nationally: speaking at Party Conference, letters to the press, TV, that sort of thing.’

Marcus cast her a sidelong look. ‘I’m not sure about that, but it’d be useful gaining experience at the hard end here in Westminster. I put out feelers for an MP to work for, but in all honesty I think I can do better than that. Say, working in a minister’s office. As a special adviser, helping write speeches and doing political research. You’re very well thought of, Elaine, and you have lots of contacts. I was wondering if you might have a word in the right ears.’

If Elaine had indeed known whom to approach about such a valuable post a different name would have hovered on her tongue: her own. Not to become a special adviser, but to perform much the same tasks, as a parliamentary private secretary, a PPS, the first rung on the ministerial ladder. Yet she had no such contacts. She eyed Marcus despairingly. He looked so longingly at her, as if she could open doors when in fact she had no idea how. He would not believe that; nor did she want to admit it. It was easier to hide her impotence. Again she asked for appropriate material, this time about himself. At last she could draw the conversation to a close and thankfully she ushered him down the steps to the exit.

Andrew Muncastle was hurrying on to the Terrace and nearly knocked her over. His tall frame looked thinner than on their earliest meeting in the Members’ Lobby that euphoric first afternoon.

‘I’m so glad I caught you, Elaine. I just wanted to thank you for being so kind to my wife and son in the café. I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you but I got a bit tied up. Tessa has taken him home now. You were a great hit – Barney is quite besotted with you and asked when he can have tea with you again.’

‘I was very pleased to meet your wife.’ Best not to respond to the invitation.

‘Now, what’s this, Mrs Stalker? Who is besotted with you?’

She jumped. The voice was very close. A male hand rested lightly on her waist. Roger Dickson might be a big man but he could move quietly and was developing a disconcerting habit of catching her unawares. He also seemed to take it for granted that he could touch her, though each time it was unobjectionable, asexual and not unpleasant. He had picked up the tail-end of the conversation.

‘I’ve been making a big play for a five-year-old boy, Andrew’s son.’ Elaine kept a straight face and feigned haughtiness. But Roger Dickson had another woman with him, standing very close.

Taller than herself, younger, on high heels, the woman was dark-haired, tanned and perfumed. A red silk jacket hung loose over firm shoulders, setting off a white bustier and short skirt. She looked stunning, whoever she was, with a mocking, knowing air. Elaine’s heart skipped a beat. In rapid succession she felt alarmed, then cross with herself, then unaccountably angry with Roger. Was this Mrs Dickson? The style was all wrong for Tory ladies’ tea parties. If not Mrs Dickson – was he a cheat?

Andrew was shuffling his feet again. He was clearly not comfortable in the presence of a man with a woman, or more than one woman, when a little sexual electricity was in the air. Elaine took refuge in a twinge of disappointment in both men: Andrew for being such a blushing dope and Roger, more so, for seeking the company of a bimbo.

Dickson turned to his companion with a proprietorial air. ‘Miranda, I should like to introduce you to two of the best of the new intake. Andrew Muncastle here has won accolades today for his maiden speech, the first this Parliament. If he carries on like that he will be much in demand. And the lovely Mrs Stalker naturally needs no introduction.’

That remark, often said about her now, did irritate. It was so patronising and seldom well meant: it usually implied a snigger, a smirk hidden behind the hand. She
did
need an introduction and would have preferred it on straightforward political lines, similar to Andrew’s. They were both MPs. Equals.

‘And may I introduce Miranda Jamieson, a journalist from
The Globe
, one of the better of our tabloid newspapers?’

Miranda giggled. ‘Roger, you do talk tripe at times.’ The accent was loud and Australian.

Elaine’s sense of disappointment intensified. If this were Dickson’s lover she would rather not know. She shook hands frostily and quickly excused herself, controlling her temper. What with Marcus expecting miracles and now Roger Dickson flaunting his girlfriend, it was all too much.

Dickson looked at the retreating figure in puzzlement, then hooted with laughter, giving Andrew a conspiratorial slap on the back. ‘I seem to have upset the prickly Mrs Stalker! My God, she thinks you’re my dolly bird, Miranda. She must believe I’m some kind of sex fiend. Not that I would reject you out of hand, my dear, I hasten to add.’

He turned to Andrew. ‘Now then, old chap. It is a good thing for bright sparks like you to get to know journalists and to learn how to talk to them without saying anything.
The Globe
asked the whips’ office if they could meet a few of the new intake – I’m sorry Mrs Stalker has gone off in a huff. Would you be kind enough to entertain Miranda a while? I do assure you she is quite harmless. Just don’t tell her any important secrets.’

Muncastle profoundly wished he were somewhere else, but good breeding and deference to authority were to the fore. In a few minutes Miranda Jamieson was perched on a high bar stool drinking vodka, showing off tanned, bare legs in the evening sunlight to the assembled gathering. The miniskirt barely covered the essentials but Miranda seemed not to care. Andrew pulled in a few admiring friends and began to fuss over his charge. Given a task he was swift and capable, standing close to her protectively but not trying to impress her, yet, in not trying, succeeding. She was so used to men breathing over her and peering down her cleavage that it was an unexpected joy to meet this pleasant man with his impeccable manners. Not a wimp, either: he had been put in charge and had not hesitated. Interesting.

For his part, Andrew was fascinated. He had never met anyone like Miranda before. Cautious with his remarks, because she was press, he found himself making a considerable effort to entertain and look after her. Her appearance was a challenge to all his limited sensibilities. You could not call her a lady or even a girl; this was a
woman
. Yet no woman of his acquaintance ever dressed like this. Usually he would have run a mile. But Miranda was friendly and fun and undeniably good company. That was bizarre. How could a woman who paraded in such a blatantly sexual style, who recrossed her legs and smoothed her bare thighs with one hand and giggled as that fool Ferriman went pink also be so intelligent? Wasn’t there a conflict here? Thoughtful women like his wife were not sexual creatures, indeed did not like sex much. Yet Miranda Jamieson, belying Roger’s downbeat introduction, was not any old journalist but, he soon learned, had just been appointed deputy editor of the newspaper. She was an important person in her own right. Thus Andrew Muncastle fussed over her, and forgot his promise to phone home before Barney went to bed.