A Woman's Place (3 page)

‘I don't believe this.'

Elaine stood in her tiny Commons office and gaped despairingly at the sackful of mail spilled out on the floor. She squatted down and, without yet opening the envelopes, began to sort it into piles: handwritten blue envelopes on one side with constituency postmarks on top and more distant letters underneath; and large brown envelopes on the other. Anything with a typed address went to the bottom of the heap. Ordinary pleaders for help would gain her attention first, today as ever.

‘How many did you say came today?'

Diane Hardy, fifty-something, plump, bespectacled and efficient, a Commons secretary for twenty years, pulled her cardigan across her ample bosom and grimaced. ‘Around two hundred. Much the same yesterday. Don't just stare at it all, Elaine – it won't vanish by itself. Here's a paper knife. Or, if you prefer, I can get a bit of clerical assistance – cost you around a fiver an hour, but some student'll be glad of it.'

‘Maybe I can get Karen in, once her exams are over.' Elaine riffled through an already opened heap of paper, mostly printed matter from the previous day's intake. With Mailsort computer programmes it was all too easy to address each missive personally to her, couched in the friendliest terms; it would be impossible to second-guess what was and wasn't significant.

Diane sensed Elaine's flattened spirits and indicated one folder of scrawled letters. ‘There are compensations, you know. You have some nice fan mail. Lots of old gents. Mr Sutton as usual, and Mr Papps, and old Bill Rivers who is so sweet. And a new one: look at this – “Your victory was a special event which will have been welcomed by all right-thinking people. You are a very wonderful lady. Seeing you on television with your lovely smile warms the cockles of my heart. I should love to meet you face to face” – and so on. Goes on for ten pages.'

Elaine took the letter, examined it and giggled. ‘Pity he's writing from Leicester Prison, then, isn't it? What's the name – ah, signs himself Graham Dunn. Send him an acknowledgement, but put him in the funny file, just in case.'

She would not have considered for one moment accepting the invitation to meet. Once, several years earlier, she had innocently arranged to have tea in a hotel with the besotted Sutton. He turned out to have lost his wife in mysterious circumstances and was apparently seeking a replacement. The obligation of courtesy towards constituents did not extend to fulfilling their every fantasy.

‘What on earth are they writing about?' Elaine mused. ‘I know it was a big surprise when we won, but they can't all be fans. Or furious.'

‘They aren't. But now the election's over it's business as usual. “Please will you sign an Early Day Motion in protest against the culling of rabbits or to congratulate Luton Football Club on winning the cup or demanding the end of nuclear dumps in East Timor.” That sort of thing.'

‘I wasn't aware that Luton had won the cup,' Elaine answered faintly. ‘And I haven't much idea where East Timor is. Why on earth should everyone assume that MPs are knowledgeable about everything? We're expected to chum out instant opinions – is that really what the punters want? Why can't politicians sometimes be permitted to say, “I don't know” – or even “I don't care” or “It's none of our concern”?'

Diane sniffed. Her considered view of the British public
en masse
was unrepeatable.

No votes were anticipated for several days, until the Queen's Speech debate was out of the way, and no Question Time for either the Prime Minister or anyone else. The House was therefore unusually quiet after the excitement of the State Opening. Older, wiser Members were on the plane to Tenerife; plenty of other occasions would offer themselves in the years ahead when late-night divisions, hour
upon midnight hour, would push their voting record to the point where boasts to local newspapers would be in order.

It was also international conference time. The Foreign Secretary was in Geneva at another round of talks on what to do about Bosnia. In Cairo, Dr Boutros Boutros-Ghali, United Nations Secretary-General, was spreading his hands self-deprecatingly about the failure of the latest UN mission in Central Africa. The new US President, who had won her campaign on an entirely domestic ticket, was engrossed in the Oval Room of the White House in a discussion on the rape of American forests. The
Globe'
s political editor, faced with a half-empty Commons or an all-expenses paid trip, had plumped for Switzerland. At least on the plane one might expect a better class of risqué stories from this Foreign Secretary than from the chap he had replaced.

The troublemakers, the ambitious and the hangers-on never left Westminster. Thus it was that Jim Betts, standing in for his absent boss, was to be seen lounging in Members' Lobby against the bust of Ramsay MacDonald a few minutes before six in the evening.

His attention was caught as the thickset figure of Minister of State Edward Bampton pushed through the swing doors. Judging from his direction Bampton had come from the Smoking Room, where gossip was dispensed along with the doubles. From his expression he had heard unpleasant news.

Betts riffled quickly through his mental card-index. Bampton was a Yorkshireman and overweeningly proud of it. He was always good for a misogynist dig or an appeal to traditional preferences such as warm beer and smoky pubs. Nearing fifty and about average height – which meant he was shorter than the typical Tory MP – podgy and ruddy-faced, he wore on his sleeve a cheerful resentment at being downgraded and, as he saw it, overlooked by the party hierarchy. His post at the Home Office, where he held responsibility for prisons, was a minor position; his role boiled down to carrying the can whenever the privately employed escort service lost a dangerous prisoner. It was widely believed that, if Bampton had his way, most of the more violent guests of Her Majesty would never have seen the light of day again.

Betts interposed himself neatly between the man and his intended destination. It seemed likely that Bampton was heading straight for the whips' office on the other side of the Lobby with the intention of thumping the table and saying his piece. Once inside he would be soothed and patted, fed a large Teacher's and a little flattery and talked out of whatever was eating him. The time to strike was now.

‘You look fed up, Ted, if you don't mind me saying so. What's the matter – the missus found out about the girlfriend?'

Bampton scowled at the banter. ‘I don't go in for that sort of stuff, as you well know, Jim. That's for fools who can't keep their trousers up. But I can't say I'm a happy man.'

Betts hazarded a guess. ‘There's a reshuffle in the offing. Details out tomorrow. Is that it?'

Bampton glanced around quickly and dropped his voice. ‘Too bloody right,' he muttered. ‘Once again the best jobs have gone to wet-behind-the-ears smart alecs with posh accents and public school backgrounds. We might as well still be in the age of pocket boroughs.'

Bampton warmed to his theme. ‘Don't the party realise that people like that go down like a lead balloon in my part of the country? What we need up north are real men, businessmen, who know what the world's about. Run a business, fought for customers, chased the debts, got the money in week by week to pay the wages. Fought off the creditors and the liquidators
and
knocked the competition for six to boot. I've done all that, but who cares? I tell you, if we had a few more of my sort in this place and in Cabinet, we'd have better decision-making at the top, and we might be popular in between elections as well.' He paused for breath.

Betts shrugged sympathetically. ‘Got to be on the inside, haven't you? Mind you, look at Roger Dickson. He's a self-made man – I mean, he married money, but nobody died and left him
anything. Came up the hard way and doing all right.'

Betts and several other journalists were floating Dickson's name as a means of initiating comment on potential candidates for the next leadership contest. Even though the party had won, nobody expected the current holder to last long. Musings about the possible next leader were standard fare, and meat and drink to Bampton.

‘He'd be preferable to the idiot we've got at the moment, campaign winner or no.' The Yorkshireman glowered. ‘Do you know the PM offered to come to my constituency during the campaign? We told him not to bother, he'd only cost us votes.' He checked himself: off-loading a few jewels of his deepest political thinking, while enjoyable, was risky. ‘Now Dickson has something about him, I'll grant you that. Though he has enemies too – some people didn't like how he handled Environment. But he's done well this time. The Foreign Office, so I hear. Big move; puts him in a perfect position for the next contest, provided he watches his step.'

The leading article formed itself in Betts's mind.
Ministers and backbenchers welcomed Dickson's appointment … spurred talk of his chances … fresh-faced, replacing the jaded features of … reshuffle failed to dampen criticism of the Prime Minister … one senior backbencher inferred that the PM's reputation had suffered as a result…
Bampton's remarks on his current leader would be stored for future use.

‘And what about yourself, Ted? Surely they haven't sidelined you yet again?'

‘No – not exactly.' Bampton was wary. ‘I'm a Minister of State, after all. Should be grateful for the opportunity to serve, I suppose. But I was hoping for a move up this time. In fact I'd been promised, after a manner of speaking, a chance at Trade and Industry. That's more in my line.'

Equanimity restored by the brief opportunity to let off steam, Ted patted Betts resignedly on the back.

‘I suppose I'll have to be satisfied for the moment. Keep my mouth shut and carry on plotting, eh?'

Elaine took a deep breath, lifted the overflowing waste-paper bin towards her, carried the mess out into the corridor, emptied the lot into the brown carriers marked ‘Paper only' and returned with it to her office. For the next hour, fortified by a weak gin and tonic from a chipped mug, she twice filled the bin and emptied it again from the disorderly heaps on her desk. One note pleased her, from a Labour MP asking her if she would occasionally pair with him. That might make life easier. The monitor announced that one of the new Members, Anthony York, was making what must be his maiden speech. She would not leave until everything was cleared.

It was several hours before the dark red plastic of the last in-tray reappeared, unsullied by any further missives. In a tired gesture of victory, Elaine wrote ‘Empty!' on a slip of yellow paper and stuck it to the tray with Sellotape. It would serve to encourage her next time the sheer drudgery of Commons life threatened to overwhelm her.

The phone rang. To get some peace Elaine had diverted her calls. She frowned.

‘Sorry to intrude, Mrs Stalker,' the operator apologised, ‘but I have your daughter on the line. Will you take the call?'

Elaine's mood lightened immediately. ‘Sure, put her on.'

A click, and a familiar voice was shouting in her ear.

‘Yeah!' Karen squealed. ‘That's it! Mum, I've finished. Had my last oral today. No more exams. I'm free!'

‘Well done – but don't be too cocky. I mean, if you don't pass you may have to retake them next year.'

‘Never – I'd rather
die
. But I will get them. In fact, I wanted to ask you, Mum. If my grades are high enough I'd like to accept that offer from the London School of Economics. I know the place is physically a dump, but the teaching's good and there are theatres and art galleries and London night life and I could see something of you. What do you think?'

‘You won't have the money for the night life, madam.' Elaine was deliberately prim. Now there was no father at home to lay down the law she felt the weight of responsibility for her only child. A thought occurred to her: ‘Are you planning to live with me – is that it? Because honestly, Karen, I haven't room. The flat has only one bedroom, as you well know…'

‘No, no. You'd cramp my style and I yours. But keep an eye open for digs for me, would you? Your name might make the difference.'

‘Will do. Meanwhile, where are you off to now?'

‘Nottingham. Mark's house – his parents are in America. We're invited to a big party – the whole weekend, the entire class – to celebrate the end of exams. And the end of our time at college together, so we'll all get maudlin and drunk. Should be
great
.'

Elaine reflected briefly on the unsuspecting householders who probably did not realise quite what Karen and her friends, well-meaning youngsters though they might be, could do to a property over forty-eight hours.

‘Be careful. Remember what happened…' She did not add, ‘…last time you got drunk.' Karen had ended up in hospital having her stomach pumped and had nearly died of alcohol poisoning. Elaine had never found out exactly what had triggered the near-tragedy; and Karen would never tell her.

The girl's voice soothed. ‘Don't worry – I'm more careful than most. I know I can't take it. But there was one more thing, Mum.' The voice took on a wheedling tone.

‘Yes?'

‘I'm skint. Can I have some money?'

He was trembling. It was worse once he had sat down, with everyone patting his shoulders, the nods of congratulation, the kindly if patronising remarks from the Labour Member opposite who followed. Anthony York ran a hand through his fair hair and could feel a rivulet of sweat trickle down his back. He bit his tongue and fought back a feeling close to tears.

Before this, his hardest moment had been the final selection at Newbury. Not many seats could be regarded as rock solid these days, but Newbury had been one of them until it had been lost in an unhappy by-election. Nevertheless the expectation of a substantial majority in more normal times and the beauty of the area had attracted a large contingent of would-be candidates. When Anthony's grave manner, impeccable reputation and distinguished appearance had fought off a dozen ex-MPs and two former Ministers squeezed from their seats by boundary changes, nobody was more surprised than he.