A Parliamentary Affair (2 page)

Nigel’s cheerful demeanour concealed mixed feelings. A large number of seats had been lost. This was the hardest, physically the most crushing election he had taken part in since entering Parliament at a by-election thirty years before. He was getting too old for this game. Of course winning against the odds was wonderful: to retain power, to be asked to carry on, to gain the country’s backing in these tough times. Thank heaven it was all over – things would improve now. That Britain in the uncertain nineties would be guided by people like himself made Boswood feel thoroughly comforted.

Roger Dickson was equally relaxed as he took the escalator from the car park. One hand stayed nonchalantly in his pocket; the other carried no more than a
Financial Times
opened at the page where its editor grovelled over his previous day’s call to vote Labour.

The place smelled just the same, a mixture of dust and ancient stone and mildew and leather and fear and the whiff of an old cigar, yet it felt as if he had been away years, not a mere three weeks. He walked through the Members’ cloakroom to see if the named pegs, for all the world like a school, had been reallocated yet. For centuries each MP had placed his sword here in a silken loop, for in this House issues were fought with sharp words. Modern loops, perhaps appropriately, were made of red tape. Then he turned left past vaulted damp cloisters where a dozen MPs would work cheek by jowl and took the stairs two at a time into Members’ Lobby. On the way he glanced at faces, stopping to swap congratulations and anecdotes with MPs in his own party, while not neglecting to nod agreeably at the other side.

Dickson understood the arduous feat of memory facing security staff. If he were confirmed in his job as a whip he faced a similar task in getting to know all the MPs. Like the police, he maintained
a private system based on acute and often irreverent observation. Already ‘dirty fingernails’ and ‘concertina trousers’ had appeared mentally beside two names, with ‘pink wig’ against a third. ‘Hunchback of Notre-Dame’ and ‘looks mad’ would follow. He needed more than their faces. Whips, the government’s own policemen, had to become acquainted with all their supporters’ foibles, preferences, proclivities and secret telephone numbers, their special friends, sworn enemies and lovers old and new, and know when and how to use this hotchpotch of information to the government’s advantage.

Dickson did not expect to be hearing from the Prime Minister in the current reshuffle. He enjoyed being a whip, and had said so on the phone to the Chief Whip. This time he could expect promotion to senior whip with the fancy title of ‘Lord Commissioner of the Treasury’, a bigger desk and a respectable pay rise.

John Major once called the whips’ office ‘the last secure den in western Europe’. Whips were not appointed by the Prime Minister but by themselves in cabal, arguing wickedly about who would fit, who should be encouraged, who ignored. No woman MP had ever been invited to join them.

Dickson headed first for the whips’ room off Members’ Lobby. Years ago it was the fiefdom of flying men and colonels distinguished in the war, although the terminology –’whippers in’ – came from hunting. The atmosphere then was like an officers’ mess: hearty, sharp, brutal and cunning. These days it was more like the prefects’ study in a public school. Government whips must get the government’s business through, by whatever means necessary, but no one forgot that there were carrots as well as sticks. The Chief Whip’s other title is ‘Patronage Secretary’. He it is who, using knowledge gleaned over months and years by his team, makes recommendations as to position, prestige and power – who should serve on important committees, who gets a better office, who goes on all-expenses-paid overseas trips (‘jollies’), who gets promotion, who the sack. The Chief Whip will even help write appropriately oleaginous resignation letters, if the numbed signatory so wishes. In the Chief’s room there is blood on the carpet, but far more under it. Nothing goes on in the Palace of Westminster that the whips don’t know about; or, at least, so they think.

Thus Roger Dickson, temperament admirably suited to the task, was delighted to continue. He was part of the knowing aristocracy of the House. He had no desire just yet to become junior minister in charge of stray dogs, mouthing trivialities in an empty Chamber at midnight and signing ministerial letters by the red box-load.

Dickson turned back into Members’ Lobby. He recognised Andrew Muncastle, whose grandfather, Sir Edward Muncastle, had been a Member also, serving in Macmillan’s government. Andrew was tall, fair, clean-shaven, pleasant-looking. Dickson searched for a distinguishing feature but found none; the man might be difficult to remember. No such problems with Elaine Stalker. Dickson had heard a lot about Mrs Stalker and was curious to meet her. That bright lively face had been instantly recognisable since her first fiery speech at Party Conference two years ago, before she was even on the candidates’ list. He recalled the incident vividly. Pleading for more help for the former Communist countries of eastern Europe, she took out a vast pair of scissors and shredded a Soviet flag, complete with hammer and sickle, to huge cheers and a standing ovation. To do it so effectively in the four minutes allotted for floor speeches must have entailed hours of practice. Delegates had loved every moment. Most of her future parliamentary colleagues quietly disapproved. Showmanship and headline grabbing, however valuable in a democratic society, were still regarded as talents rather beneath MPs. Especially since most were pretty hopeless at such skills themselves.

Elaine Stalker was the shortest in the group, even wearing high-heeled shoes. She was striking in appearance, Dickson noted, almost conventionally good-looking with well-defined features and clear skin, an oval face with strong cheekbones, blonde hair in a great halo round her head – very well assembled. Pretty hands, emphasising her speech. Bold Butler & Wilson pearl earrings and a matching brooch on her smart blue suit piped in white, all saying emphatically, ‘Tory woman MP’.
Women’s styles still bore the impact of Margaret Thatcher’s tastes. It would be years before a woman MP could wear anything but a tailored suit and be taken seriously at the same time. Elaine Stalker would be in her thirties, a year or two older than Andrew Muncastle. A year or three younger than himself. In Roger Dickson’s fertile brain the lady was promptly marked down as a new Member well worth getting to know.

‘I’m Roger Dickson. I’m one of the whips. Welcome to Westminster, all of you.’

The little group turned to him respectfully. Members of the same party shake hands only once, on first meeting. After that, superstition sets in: if two members shake hands, one will lose at the next election. Roger told them the legend and was entertained as Elaine’s eyes shone in disbelief. ‘But that won’t bother me. I would expect to kiss most of my colleagues, once I get to know them of course.’ She looked up at him mischievously. She had hazel eyes, candid, friendly. ‘Does the rule still apply?’

‘I don’t think so, but I should be careful who you start kissing around here!’ Roger replied easily. ‘From what I can see, the Labour people have really smartened up their act and look just like us these days. Make sure you know who you are cuddling up to, Elaine. Here endeth the first lesson.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind, and who gave it too, Roger.’ Elaine fixed the name of this tall man firmly in her mind. Roger Dickson. An air of quiet, effective power. Must go and look him up in the library – he would be in
Who’s Who
already, whereas new arrivals would have to wait till the following year. She wanted the exchange to continue. ‘Now tell us about the first day: what happens? Is it going to be exciting?’

There had been a slight atmosphere, just for a second. Andrew Muncastle, head bent, had been shifting his feet while the two had flirted so briefly and innocently. Dickson found himself slightly irritated by Muncastle. If that was all this alluring woman ever got up to, in the Lobby or elsewhere, she would do no harm and brighten many lives. Cold fish were far more trouble.

‘Our first task is to elect our Speaker, who will then serve us for the whole of this Parliament,’ Roger explained. The two new MPs were instantly attentive, like children on their first day at school. Dickson squared his shoulders proudly. ‘It looks like there might be a real contest this time; you may even be voting, which hasn’t happened in years. It’s usually a member of the winning side. The problem is that there are five candidates on our side and none will stand down in favour of any other. Labour have settled on Betty Boothroyd, the Deputy Speaker. Their vote is solid. But the multiplicity of names means possibly more than one vote.’

How very gratifying. Andrew and Elaine were hanging on to every word, as was right and proper. Other new Members had gathered around to listen. Few recognised Dickson, who as a whip was little known outside the Palace of Westminster. Yet it was clear from his stance and manner, even from a distance, that he was a person of some importance. Long after this day every detail of their first contacts in this extraordinary place – who spoke to them, what was said, the strange schoolboyish atmosphere overlaid on the dazed pleasure at having made it here at last – would be burned into their brains. Roger was enjoying his appreciative audience no less. Nine years since first entering Parliament, he felt a veteran at last.

‘The first nominated will be one of ours, but to make things easier for you all the first
vote
will be for or against Miss Boothroyd. Only if she fails to get a majority will we vote on anyone else. If she fails we go to the next one, and so on.’

Elaine Stalker was fascinated. ‘Will she win?’

‘Only if people like us vote for her,’ Andrew Muncastle butted in. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? She needs our support, and I for one am not starting my career by voting for a Labour Member.’

Roger allowed himself to sound worldly-wise. ‘I do assure you that party whips are not applied for this vote, officially or otherwise. You may vote as you wish. We have of course taken soundings, as you would expect, but in terms of creating a unified front we got absolutely nowhere.
Now if you have no more questions I must go and find my secretary and start answering my mail. You’ll do the same if you have any sense.’

Andrew nodded stiffly and took his advice. People drifted away. Elaine watched surreptitiously, head on one side like a bird, as Dickson’s tall, broad-shouldered figure strolled down the library corridor. He walked as if he owned the place. It would be strange to be surrounded by men like that who meant to impress, men who checked their appearance in the mirror every morning.

Elaine read her Hansard in puzzled appreciation. She had been warned but in the rush she had forgotten to come in early. She had no desire to share the gallery with the public on this special day for the election of the new Speaker, so shoulder to shoulder with a hundred other MPs she jostled at the crowded entry to the Chamber, at the spot she already knew was called, confusingly, the Bar of the House.

It was immediately apparent that basic football-terrace skills were essential, otherwise she was in danger of being crushed or, at best, dwarfed by male heads raised above her own. With the aid of a judiciously sharp elbow and many gasped apologies she wriggled her way to the front. There at least she could see, even if her best new yellow suit was becoming crumpled and her feet beginning to hurt.

There was another unexpected hazard of such proximity to colleagues. Behind her, harrumphing to himself, an expression of aristocratic disinterest on his face, stood a Conservative Scottish MP of uncertain age. He was running his hand over her back, up and round, into the curve of her spine and then dangerously close to her rump, as if exploring a piece of prime Aberdeen Angus. When Elaine half twisted round to glare, the man offered an insolent leer.

‘Load of bloody rubbish!’ The remark came from a small man at her side.

‘Beg pardon?’ Saying anything politely in this heaving mass was difficult. Somehow she had expected her first few moments in Parliament to be more dignified.

Keith Quin, Labour MP for Manchester Canalside, gestured with a free hand. ‘All this! Lords Commissioners, the Royal Approbation, doffing three-cornered hats, waves of the magic wand, Black Rod … all nonsensical flummery. The message is that the Lords, right up to Queenie herself, have to approve the appointment of the person who’s the highest commoner in the land. This is a democracy. We need serious constitutional reform. It should all go.’

‘Nonsense.’ Elaine was intrigued at this, to her, new example of the political animal. ‘It’s all harmless and part of our history. And the tourists love it.’

‘It’s all a constant assertion that democracy here is a new arrival and on sufferance from those who really govern, the hierarchy, the inherited law-givers down the way, that bunch of chancers in fancy dress you’ve been gawping at.’ The Labour MP glowered unconvincingly.

‘And did you put all that in your manifesto?’ enquired Elaine, feigning innocence.

‘Might have done better if we had.’ The man gloomily contemplated serried ranks of Tory Englishmen.

Behind her the exploring hand was at it again, lower down this time. Elaine bowed her head and considered her feet, took careful aim, and then quietly ground her high heel into the brogued foot behind her. She was gratified to hear a muffled sob as the pressure on her back eased.

‘It’s not as if anyone takes it all seriously,’ she averred, as if nothing had happened. She was learning fast. ‘After all, these traditions are all on the surface. It doesn’t get in the way of running a modern country. Does it?’

In the absence of a Speaker, the Father of the House took the chair and called two distinguished Conservative backbenchers to propose their candidate, a popular Tory grandee.