A Parliamentary Affair (45 page)

A profitable hour passed as Betts explained the potential arrangements. He shivered at the boy’s calculating coolness. Most people in this situation, about to shop a lover to the press, were scared and uncertain, or alternatively vengeful and full of glee. All were nervous, but not this one. Few went into it in such detail, like a business transaction. The boy made not a note but listened and nodded as he put away two more expensive drinks.

The door opened and several new customers entered, shaking rain from coats, laughing and joking with the landlord. Outside was dark and miserable. The journalist sensed suddenly that the boy’s attention had wandered. Betts stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet.

‘I’d better be getting along. Now you said you’ll be on holiday in January? If you get any decent pics, ring me, will you? Then maybe we can start talking turkey. I’d like to do business with you.
The Globe
would be proud to print your story.’

‘I’ll bet,’ said Peter quietly, with a crooked half-smile.

He did not get up, but shook hands. The discussion was over.

Outside Betts turned up the collar of his coat. The boy left him distinctly on edge. This wouldn’t be an easy catch, not like the average jilted lover. What was wrong? He would be wary of going elsewhere, for fear the story would get out; the exclusive wouldn’t be, then, in a manner of speaking. And he might get arrested before he could spill the beans. No, the problem would not be rival rags, but persuading him to do it at all. His trade depended on discretion.

Next time, if there was a next time, the two of them would delve nice and deep into motives. Being taken for granted by one of the country’s richest men would be a good starter. Letting the lad think he was being really smart, outwitting everyone: his vanity would be his downfall. Betts looked forward, humming, to further progress.

‘My dear Nigel. Come on up.’

The Prime Minister pushed his spectacles back up his nose with a preoccupied gesture. He was in shirtsleeves. Whatever improvements may have been wrought on No. 10 over the years, the heating system was never quite right. As a result the little flat under the sloping caves, used in the evenings for private work and more intimate conversations, was too hot. Fiddling with the controls made him exasperated: it reminded him too much of the impossibility of running the economy at a steady temperature. To visitors like Nigel Boswood he would murmur apologetically, then shrug and give up.

At least up here human scale predominated. Downstairs in the grandiose state rooms one always felt awkwardly on show. He was forever embarrassed at catching sight of himself in huge framed mirrors, and scared to turn around quickly for fear of clumsily knocking over some priceless piece of porcelain. He didn’t care much for the Turners on the walls, either – murky and grim, with moody cattle on dark hills, discards from the painter’s off days. The family liked living here now, especially not having to wash up; but it was hard to tick off a recalcitrant colleague while perched on a satin sofa, trying to avoid dirtying a fabulous old carpet, the price of which would buy any number of houses up north. At home he would wear slippers. That wasn’t done here.

‘What’s your poison?’ The Prime Minister motioned Nigel to the sofa. It was too soft and too low. Nigel found himself buried in upholstery. Puffing slightly, his legs splayed in an ungainly composition before him, he felt at a disadvantage. With an effort he heaved himself upright and asked for a gin and tonic.

The PM went to the door, opened it, called down the drinks order and returned to the chair. ‘Don’t you have an intercom?’ Nigel asked, astonished, The PM chuckled. ‘That might work both ways. I prefer to have some private conversations.’

A tubby woman in a white apron brought up the tray which the PM took himself and put down on the desk. The conversation drifted in a desultory manner for a few minutes. The PM cradled a bitter lemon in his big hands, and examined his Secretary of State for the Environment carefully and without comment. The subject of the visit, requested by Nigel, had been whispered on the phone from No. 12 by the Chief Whip.

Sir Nigel Boswood was looking old. Even in their forties there was a noticeable difference between men who exercised modest self-discipline, such as the Prime Minister, and those who preferred self-indulgence, like Nigel. By the late fifties the gap was widening. And Nigel was approaching sixty.

‘Roll on Christmas, what?’ Nigel intended his voice to sound bright but the dark room invited intimacy, not brittle formality. He tried again. ‘It’s been a tough twelve months. Let’s hope next year will be an improvement.’

‘I’ll drink to that.’ The Prime Minister spoke with feeling and raised his glass. ‘Mind you, we started the year at war in Bosnia and sending in the Tornadoes in Iraq. I confess I’m more worried about other areas of the Middle East. While we’ve all been distracted by Saddam, the power of fundamentalism is growing. The Iranians have been arming themselves heavily, and one wonders, for what? Makes me uneasy.’

Nigel looked into his glass, wishing it were a crystal ball. ‘The electorate might prefer us to turn our attention closer to home, Prime Minister. Foreign policy bores them, mostly. But the money in their pockets: that matters. Do you know the unemployment rate in my constituency is – eleven per cent and still rising? And it’s party supporters as well who are out of work. The shops are full but nobody’s spending any money. How long will this go on, do you think?’

‘We have seen some growth this year, Nigel.’ The tone was almost petulant. ‘Don’t they realise the recession is over?’

The Prime Minister rose and stood looking out of the small window. Down Whitehall lights twinkled as office workers heading for home turned up collars against the chill wind. He envied them.

He continued, ‘Much of what’s happened since the election has been quite outside our control. Do you know what Macmillan said, when asked what as Prime Minister he feared most? “Events, dear boy, events.” I know exactly what he meant.’

‘I heard him. I was at the meeting,’ Nigel reminded his leader with acerbity. To hell with it. ‘You seem to be telling me that we can’t anticipate or avoid or persuade or change things, but only react? After the event, never before? I don’t accept that. Perhaps, Prime Minister, if you gave a stronger lead we might have greater influence over “events”.’

The Prime Minister was frosty. ‘Is this what you came to say to me, Nigel?’

Boswood was equally annoyed. ‘In a minute. I’ll get this off my chest first if you don’t mind. Your trouble, Prime Minister, is you’re too damned
nice
. You let everyone in Cabinet have their say in the hope that as reasonable men and women they’ll agree. But they don’t, on principle, because they’re all fighting each other for the top job: your job. Ambitious people always do. You’re kidding yourself. I’d have thought you’d have realised.
The only opinion that counts in the Cabinet is yours
. If you make your mind up and stick to it, the power of your office is such that you’ll get much of what you want.’ Nigel sighed. ‘I apologise, Prime Minister. I think very highly of you, and I want the verdict of history on your administration to be as positive as possible, that’s all.’

The older man stretched his limbs, rubbing one calf. His right leg was going to sleep. Time to get to the point.

‘I am here to tell you I wish to resign, but at your calling. At once if you want, but if you prefer me to stay till a convenient dropping-off point I’ll do that with pleasure. That would suit the department as we’re in the middle of a big Bill. So my job is at your disposal.’

The Prime Minister refrained from pointing out that Nigel’s job was always at his disposal, whether the incumbent liked it or not. ‘Do you wish to go because you disagree with government policy – is that it?’ If the man was going to be a troublemaker on the back benches, it would be better to persuade him to stay.

Nigel shook his head vigorously. ‘No, no. I don’t disagree with government policy. I would just like to know, sometimes, what it is. Enough of that. I’ve done thirty-one years in Parliament, Prime Minister. I’ve been a frontbencher since I became a whip in 1970 – that’s a very long stretch indeed. In fact I believe I’m the longest-serving minister.’ That was true.

The Prime Minister was watching him gravely. Nigel’s glass was empty but a refill had not been offered. The warmth of the little room made his jacket sit heavy on his shoulders. Nigel took a deep breath, conscious of great sadness, of a dying within himself. When he left this room it would be all over bar the shouting, and probably not much of that.

‘This coming year I shall be sixty, and celebrating ten years in Cabinet. Far more than I ever thought possible. It has been an enormous privilege; I wouldn’t have chosen it any other way. But it takes a toll of the human frame, too, though fortunately I haven’t got a wife and family to worry about. I honestly don’t know how you chaps manage. I want to get out while the going is good, while I still have my health and sanity. Give you enough time to appoint a successor.’

‘You’re a good man, one of my best ministers. I shall be very sorry to lose you.’ The Prime Minister’s sincerity was genuine, but his mind was already moving ahead. Boswood’s replacement would almost certainly be yet another person younger than himself. Baying at his heels, they were. When the time came Margaret hadn’t wanted to go, not at all. He wondered uncomfortably if his own demise would be as messy. ‘Will you stay on in Parliament?’

‘No, I don’t think so. I plan to stand down next time. Oh, Milton and Hambridge would have me, I’m sure. But it’s not fair, an old man hogging a safe seat. It ought to go to some young bright spark who’ll be a Cabinet minister in his turn. I imagine you would send me to the Lords?’

The Prime Minister nodded his assent, smiling slightly.

‘That will do me very well. Thank you. I should enjoy being active there, saying my piece. I have many interests, as you know. Might write something. Travel. Theatre, gardening, bit of shooting.’

Downstairs a clock was striking the hour. Nigel Boswood was acutely aware that he was now rabbiting on. Some imperceptible shift in the Prime Minister’s demeanour suggested a whiff of impatience. On an invisible signal, both men rose. The Prime Minister offered his hand, shook Boswood’s warmly, murmured a few words, showed him down the short flight of stairs and ushered him deftly into a tiny personal lift. In a few moments Sir Nigel Boswood was walking out into the rain, blinking slightly, with a leaden heart.

The Prime Minister was on the phone. ‘As you suspected … Yes … At a time of our choosing, which is helpful… Oh, I would expect at the next reshuffle in the summer.’

He listened for a minute, doodling on a pad next to the phone. His wife would be back soon. Out tonight, black tie at the opera. Boxes afterwards, till two o’clock in the morning. He used to do them in bed till his wife complained.

‘No, not a word. Whatever the state of his personal life he keeps it to himself.’ A pause. ‘I hope not – we can do without any more scandals. I know you’re paid to think the worst, Chief, but on this occasion I think you’re wrong. Just turn your mind to his replacement, will you? It would be easiest if we can simply slide Dickson up… Yes, I know he hasn’t been a minister long, but neither was I when Margaret took a chance on me. Keep an eye on him, and report back … What? … Oh,
La Traviata
. Weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Just like politics… Yes, I will. Bye.’

Elaine hung her check jacket neatly over the back of a chair, smiled at her daughter, seated herself expectantly at the kitchen table and opened the large brown envelope. A pile of Christmas cards still waited reproachfully to be addressed and posted; plastic holly and tinsel lay in a heap on the sideboard. Karen’s finger rubbed absent-mindedly at a sticky mark on the table left by a bunch of fresh mistletoe. Both hoped the family would have a happier time than last year.

‘Make me a coffee, will you, darling, while I read this?’ Karen seemed pale and listless. Conscious that her own manner might have been a little offhand, Elaine added cheerily, ‘What will I find? Is your school report good or bad this term?’

The girl shrugged and moved to the kettle. Since half-term it had been difficult to concentrate. Now holidays had arrived a blitz on homework was planned to catch up. Everyone claimed GCSEs were easy, and so they were – provided you had nothing else on your mind. She felt tired, dejected, distracted. Next year would be much harder, doing A levels. Assuming she got through this lot.

The kettle boiled. The girl spooned Nescafe into two mugs and added sweeteners.

Elaine looked up, nodded thanks. ‘You never used to drink coffee, Karen.’

‘I do now.’ The coffee revived her low spirits. Not sleeping didn’t help. ‘You never used to take artificial sweeteners, Mum.’

‘Touché.’ Elaine patted her hips with a laugh. ‘Have to now. Trying to compete with my beautiful young daughter.’ Raising her eyes to Karen’s face she looked for a girlish response but the pleasantry met with a stony stare.

Her mother subsided, reading steadily, flicking over the slips of paper on which different class teachers and tutors’ remarks were penned. A frown slowly creased between her eyes. After several minutes she turned to her daughter.

‘This report is really not good, Karen. Several teachers say you’re not paying attention and are careless. One believes you are clearly working below your capacity. You usually get compliments. Should I be worried? Are you?’

‘It’ll be all right, Mum. I’ve had a hard term.’

‘I know we don’t spend as much time together as I would like. Is that what’s bothering you? Or is it something else? Whatever it is, Karen, you can tell me. I am your mother.’ That was the whole trouble. The girl shook her head. She had thought long and hard about telling somebody at school. Her best friend, maybe, the one she always told everything, sworn to secrecy. Girls at school, in the dormitory at night, discussed sex constantly, shivering with anguish at the less pleasant side of sexual encounters. Mostly made up, she now realised. Innocents, the lot of them, and the talkative ones knew least of all.

A gap had now opened up between herself and her schoolgirl pals. You couldn’t really keep a secret with that lot. Even a friend sworn to silence might blurt out sooner or later that Karen Stalker knew more about sex than she was letting on.

And how on earth could she explain to anybody, best friend or no, about her mother’s affair? It was impossible to believe that it wouldn’t get out. Anybody in school would tell, at the drop of a hat. There was a mysterious umbilical cord which bound that school to the tabloid newspapers. Hadn’t they found out somehow when she had been caught smoking behind the bike sheds? How much more interested they would be in a hot story involving her mother, vastly more titillating than a quick smoke. Their house would be dogged by cameramen for weeks, camping out on the lawn and trampling the flowerbeds, rifling the dustbins. Quizzing her pals, embroidering and exaggerating and lying. Not that the whole horrible story needed additional material.

Thus confiding in someone had been considered and dismissed. Yet she had to talk to somebody or she would burst. Should she tell her mother? If so, there was no time like the present. Karen felt her pulse quicken and took a deep breath.

Mum was looking cross. And impatient: glancing at the clock. More interested in the school results than in Karen herself. More concerned to get away to her next important appointment than to stay here and talk. A sob rose into Karen’s throat, but with a defiant toss of her head she forced it back.

Let it be a test for her mother. Couldn’t she see the turmoil in her only child? Wasn’t misery writ large all over her face, or was she, Karen, already that good at hiding her feelings? Maybe it ran in the family. Politicians had to do it all the time. This business with Roger meant Mum must be playing a part every day, pretending to feel one thing when another powerful emotion was surging through her. Pretending to love Dad and miss him, when in reality she was hankering after another man entirely. Quite a performance.