A Parliamentary Affair (7 page)

‘That sounds like a great idea, but perhaps I should go back to my hotel and change, if it’s informal and there’s going to be dancing. Shall I meet you there when things liven up a bit later?’

‘Make it nine thirty.’ Peter looked pleased and leaned over, putting a hand on his arm. Showing me he’s not a junkie, thought Nigel, as he grasped the offered hand and turned it over. There were no needle marks. Eyes met again in mutual comprehension and Peter grinned. ‘I think this could be a fun night for you, Stephen. Come on, I’ll show you where it is, then we can meet there later. It’s not open just yet.’

Back at the Golden Tulip, as he showered and changed into slacks, a polo-necked sweater and the grey leather jacket he had bought years ago for nights such as this, Boswood tried and failed to stop himself thinking about what he planned to do. At home it was legal – just; but never in a million years would the Prime Minister or the party accept as Cabinet minister a man who was other than utterly heterosexual, all the time. Even to be excessively hetero was OK these days, as the survival of both Cecil Parkinson and more recently David Mellor, so far, had showed. It was so bloody unfair. When Paddy Ashdown’s escapades became public knowledge just before the 1992 election his position in the opinion polls showed a 4 per cent improvement. But
gay
. That was still different entirely.

A gay man might have been able to manage as a private citizen, but the Right Honourable Sir Nigel Boswood MP, tenth baronet, cousin to an earl and related to the Royal Family, did not know what it was to be a private person. Since childhood he had been watched, his progress discussed, his moods and foibles noted and compared, his manners corrected, his beliefs laid bare, his companions carefully scrutinised and largely chosen for him. First by his family; then by family substitutes, guardians, nannies, teachers, friends of the family; then, when he became an adult, even at Cambridge, by the endless, sleepless scrutiny of the press. That had always meant being ultra-careful, in word, deed, manner, even body language. Two dear college friends, erstwhile frequent visitors to his flat, had not been invited since his elevation to the Cabinet. It had eased the pain of seeing this couple together in harmonious amity; how he envied them their years of loving partnership. Had a love like that presented itself to him at the right time, he might never have gone into politics. But when Sir Nigel Boswood was young, homosexual love at any age was illegal and, furthermore, regarded as twisted and evil. That was how he was brought up. He had learned to keep his feelings to himself. By the time the law changed it was too late.

So Amsterdam it was. A twinge of guilt assuaged him and he fought it down, like bile. Of course he should have exercised self-discipline and gone with Chadwick on that plane; gone home and spent the rest of a riskless evening with a large brandy watching
Newsnight
and catching up with his damned red boxes. Little did anyone realise the painful effort in maintaining an apparently blameless celibate life. At least he had avoided marrying and thus making some poor woman miserable.

So Sir Nigel shaved carefully, brushed his hair, cleaned his teeth and flossed them, tidied the hairs in his nose, dabbed aftershave on his handkerchief, checked his money and left papers, keys, ticket and passport in the hotel safe.

The boy would not be there, of course; but at least he had learned without having to ask the name of the latest place. It was dark now. A different crowd was milling about, young men and women in raucous groups, sizing each other up for a night out. Not a Saturday night: just a typical weekday. Not too crowded. Just right.

‘Hi, Stephen! I thought you might not come.’ The boy was there, waiting, leaning against the wall. His hair glowed red and yellow as neon lights flashed overhead; the sound of music and bursts of laughter floated around him.

Feeling genuinely delighted, Nigel slipped his arm round the boy’s slim shoulders and leaned forward to kiss him. As he did so, Peter turned his baby-face so that the kiss fell full on his lips. The boy then slowly, suggestively, licked his lips, eyes dancing. Nigel’s heart leaped and started to pound. The great ache was screaming to get out.

‘It’s great to see you, Peter. You look lovely.’ He felt a thrill of pleasure and hugged the boy to him. Together they went inside.

The big club was just filling up. It occupied the whole of a narrow, three-storey building. Downstairs and on the first floor were black-painted dance areas, throbbing with noise and flashing strobe lights. The lower dance floor offered sixties pop and rock; its clients were middle-aged,
grey-haired
, a little paunchy. Upstairs loud, crashing heavy-metal music attracted a younger crowd, dancers in leather. It was incongruous to see bikers and Hell’s Angels jiving around and head-banging, then holding hands or cuddling in a corner. Nigel never really got used to the bizarre style of the Amsterdam gay scene and would dream wildly about it at home, waking sweating and gasping, the music still making his head spin. A bar area led off each dance floor where the sound was quieter and conversation possible. The downstairs bar was conventionally decorated in blue and silver, but upstairs the owners had encouraged a hard-up artist to use his imagination; so the walls had become green fields, peopled by Friesian black and white cows, brown eyes rolling and tails lifted suggestively.

At the entrance both men had been frisked and warned that no drugs were allowed on the premises: any trouble and the police would be called.

‘If you did that in London or Manchester, the police would beat up every gay man in sight,’ commented Nigel.

Peter laughed. ‘In Amsterdam the police are just as likely to be gay themselves. The local police chief is gay and has been putting recruiting ads in our magazines. Some of his blokes are members here. Can you believe it?’

The boy nodded to a tall, bronzed man behind the bar. That, he explained, was Ernst, who ran the place with his partner Jan. So Peter was a runner for them. A student had to pick up extra money somehow. It looked a lively, friendly place and they were not overcharging for drinks.

A man without a regular lover may touch very few other human beings. Nigel feared being awkward as he bought drinks and made conversation, but the boy led him easily on to the dance floor, where alcohol and desire steadily took over. His dancing was clumsy and awkward but it did not matter. Nobody here was looking at them; everyone was doing exactly the same thing. Through the boy’s shirt he could feel a taut body leaning sinuously into his own, the soft blond hair resting briefly on his shoulder. He felt happy, and thrilled, as the lights whizzed past, the music throbbed. The ache was concentrating itself in the pit of his stomach. Soon it would be time.

Peter seemed to read his thoughts. ‘There’s a room upstairs. Would you like to see it? You don’t have to … you know … do anything, if you don’t want to.’

It was as if the boy were the supplicant and he the provider instead of the other way round. Without another word Peter took his hand and led him like a child across the dance floor, nodding at Ernst and Jan on the way.

Behind a curtain it was all black. ‘Mind the stairs, they’re a bit steep,’ whispered Peter. He pressed something into Nigel’s hand: a condom. ‘They’re bloody strict here – quite likely to check up on us.’

Nigel swallowed hard and tried to sound light-hearted. His voice came out too British, almost a bray: ‘Quite right too.’

At the top of the narrow stairs, in the eaves of the building, through another thick black curtain, all the doors had been removed, windows covered and all light sources painted out. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and sex. It was pitch dark and hot, but that the place was full of writhing bodies was evident from the slithering noises, grunts and whimpering. Boswood’s mouth was dry and he was breathing hard. Stepping carefully, holding on to Peter and squeezing around corners, he found himself led into a narrow airless alcove equipped with a wooden bench.
And at last he let himself go, pulling the boy to him, kissing and holding him so tight it felt as if this slight body would break; but Peter was wiry and fit, fought back, pushing at him so he redoubled his efforts, panting hard. In a moment their clothes were in a heap, Vaseline and a towel appeared from nowhere, and with a cry Boswood joined the heaving groups of men on the anonymous blacked-out top floor of a Dutch warehouse, making love in desperation and anguish and pain.

‘Oh God.’ He was suddenly exhausted. His mouth tasted unpleasant and his head ached. His skin crawled, sticky and foul. He was immediately stone-cold sober and felt in need of a bath. Carefully, he eased himself up and stroked Peter’s back, patting him in a gesture of thanks, as if the boy were a favourite pony remembered from childhood.

In silence they dressed, avoiding each other’s space. Then Peter deliberately put out his hand into Nigel’s. ‘You were bloody marvellous,’ the boy whispered. ‘Thank you.’

Together they navigated the still writhing bodies, the feeling of distaste welling in Nigel’s mouth. The stinking air lacked oxygen. Nearby a man screamed, twice, three times. Nigel was sweating profusely, his clothes stuck to his clammy body. If gays were part of a normal world, would any still come to places like this? Probably: some would want the ultimate excitement of not having privacy, of being surrounded by the sounds of sexual arousal. Some liked the feeling of taking part in an orgiastic activity. As he stumbled down the stairs Nigel realised in a sudden flash of self-awareness that he also had strange needs: usually so fastidious, he
needed
to be sickened by what he had just done. Feeling disgusted afterwards was a necessary adjunct, this self-loathing the only thing that kept him under control the rest of the time. If it were too easy, as simple as just taking this pretty boy back to his well-upholstered hotel room, he would never be free of it, would never be able to curb or hide his queerness, his aching sin. For he had been brought up to believe all this was horrible and wrong. Anyone that way inclined was cursed. To prove to himself it really was evil, he had to come to an evil place, to do the necessary and exhaust himself, and to feel utterly sickened afterwards.

Oh, God in heaven.

Outside in the street he found he was weeping. ‘What’s the matter?’ Peter was anxious. ‘It’s not your first time, is it?’

‘No, but it’s just such a terrible thing for me.’ He wanted to be rid of the boy quickly now, get back to the safe haven of the hotel. No names, no pack drill: no traces, no risks, no follow-up. He pulled out his wallet and peeled off 300 guilders. ‘That’s nearly £100. Is it enough?’

Peter’s eyes widened. The pink tongue flickered over his lips. ‘Oh, Stephen! Of course it is. Will you be OK? Look, shall I come back with you?’

But Boswood was already striding rapidly away, wiping his eyes on the perfumed handkerchief and gulping down sobs. It seemed an age before he walked quickly through the lighted lobby and headed for his room.

The sleepy night porter who saw him assumed that the English government minister, usually so suave and full of bonhomie, a good tipper, had had a tiff with a secret lady friend. They came to Amsterdam for pleasure and were reminded only of their own despair. It happened all the time.

Roger Dickson’s eyes widened in pleasure and astonishment. Pulling up a chair he sat down expectantly. His three children, already seated and tucking in, ignored him. 

‘My! Bacon and eggs for breakfast! To what do we owe this delight, Caroline?’

His wife, tending a sizzling frying pan, grinned over her shoulder. ‘Well, if you’re going to be a lord you had better have a lordly breakfast. Mind, I shan’t be doing this every day. Too busy. The children thought I’d had a brainstorm, especially with Nanny off sick. There’s gratitude for you! Now how do you like your rashers? It’s so long since I attempted this I’ve forgotten.’

‘Crispy, please. Only one egg. And is there any chance of a piece of fried bread?’

Toby flicked hair off his forehead. ‘What do we call you now, Dad?’

Dickson poured a glass of orange juice, sat back and contemplated the solemn ten-year-old. Out of the corner of one eye he was aware of Emma and Clarissa at the far end of the table fighting over the ketchup. Caroline was listening.

‘I’m not a proper lord, you know. “Lord Commissioner of the Treasury” is the grand title, but all it means is senior whip. I share a better office. And I formally sign multi-billion-pound cheques – not my money, I hasten to add. That’s about it.’

Caroline Dickson carefully ladled breakfast on to a plate and poured coffee. She was a solid, capable woman whose rosy skin and thick, brown hair, tidied away under a hairband, revealed a preference for the outdoor life. Today she wore a green sweater over a check shirt, a silver pin of a fleeing fox at the neck and brown corduroy trousers.

Although over forty she looked younger, with an air of ease and self-confidence. She sat and watched as her husband ate.

He paused, fork in air. ‘Much appreciated. You not having any?’

‘No. I had a grapefruit. Tiny Tim was labouring a bit over the stiles last week, so I have to get a stone off.’

Her passion in life was hunting and point-to-point. The weather was fresh and breezy so she would ride later. Roger was ignoring the newspaper, which meant he was happy to let the conversation continue. This morning he appeared to be enjoying the family chatter, though at times the children’s exuberance would annoy them both.

She continued lightly, ‘So that means I still can’t call myself Lady Dickson, does it?’

Caroline was teasing. She knew her husband was pleased with this promotion, even though it meant little beyond the Commons. Nor was the former Honourable Caroline Tarrant, daughter of Viscount Tarrant, bothered about titles. Had England permitted the general accession of women, as was more common in the Scottish peerage, she would have become Lady Tarrant in her own right in due course instead of seeing the name and property passing to her younger brother. Then Toby would have become a peer in his turn. Their Lordships’ House had considered such a change more than once, but being only marginally less male-dominated than the Commons had turned the idea down flat.

‘Stick with me, baby,’ Roger responded with a grin. ‘If I get promoted out of the whips’ office next time into a comfortable junior minister’s job, and if I make it through the ranks many years from now into the Cabinet, then on my retirement – around the year 2013, I imagine – I might just get a life peerage. If the House of Lords is still in existence by then, of course.’

‘You don’t think it’s likely to be abolished, do you?’

The children were getting restless. Their mother sent them off upstairs to clean their teeth and fetch school satchels.

‘No, not a chance. A second, revising Chamber is always useful. The fact that it is not elected is even more useful: if it talks sense, we act on its advice, and if it talks rubbish we overrule it. Who in their right minds would change that?’

‘You still enjoy the life, don’t you, Roger?’ Her head was on one side. Spending so much time with animals gave her a sensitivity to how humans felt also, although despite mixing with articulate people she could not always explain how she knew.

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because you look tired sometimes. And your description of the next twenty years didn’t exactly zing with enthusiasm.’

‘Being a whip is tiring,’ Roger admitted. ‘I seem to have landed late duties several times this month – staying till the bitter end. Naturally I wish I could make it all happen a bit faster but I’m not exactly a high flyer, you know. Been there almost ten years now and not got very far. People who started long after me are in Cabinet already. I may not make it at all.’

His wife picked up his dish, cleared the remains and placed it in the sink. The children were again clamouring for attention.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re a high flyer. Not done too badly for a man who left school at sixteen, have you?’

‘Ah, my one stroke of luck was marrying you.’

‘No, you did it yourself. False modesty doesn’t become you. But remember, any time you want to stop there’s always Daddy’s bank. He adores you and you would have a great career there, out of the limelight, which would be a bonus for us all.’

‘Spend more time with my family, maybe? Wouldn’t you feel sorry if I left politics?’ He was curious. In a moment the kitchen would be empty. He realised how seldom he talked about the future with his wife. Much was taken for granted in this easy-going household.

‘Me? No, not at all. I’m easy. It’s for you to decide.’ She glanced up. Her husband looked a little upset. She shrugged, sorry she could not share his love affair with the political world; but he had always known that.

She explained, ‘It wouldn’t make any difference to my life. I should still support the local party, I should still spend most of my time in town ferrying children around – for the next decade anyway – and I should still be more interested in horses and hounds than in people. At least animals don’t answer back. Emma, put that down and let’s get going.’

Dickson half rose, but she planted a quick kiss on his cheek and the children did likewise. Only the little one, his adored Clarissa, she of the dark hair and big sparkling eyes, scrambled on to his lap and gave him a proper hug. In a second the door had banged and the kitchen was quiet.

He poured another coffee and attempted to read the newspaper but was not concentrating. The unaccustomed conversation in the cramped townhouse kitchen had disturbed his equilibrium. Some political families were a partnership of intensely like-minded people, who shared ambition and helped each other. Though tempting, having a wife in the Commons gallery taking notes would not have suited him and he would have disliked coming home to a post-mortem on every speech. And it was not her style. As a wife Caroline was supportive, certainly. No complaints on that score. Nor did she interfere. She kept her views to herself, if she had any, and had never been other than tactful and considerate to constituents. His passion for politics was tolerated with an amused, almost condescending good humour. But if one day he came home to tell her it was all over and he wished to return to banking she would have smiled and simply accepted his decision. Yet, he knew, she would have been secretly pleased.

The main whips’ meeting was at ten; getting in early would do no harm. Caroline had taken the car so he would walk. It was pleasantly sunny out and the Commons was not far.

Early summer was the best time in London. All the plane trees were in full leaf, their green freshness waving over his head. He could almost smell the additional oxygen they had been pumping into the air all night. An early shower had left the streets newly clean. More people seemed to be walking; traffic was light.

His mind ranged over the discussion. Was Caroline right – was his enthusiasm waning? No, that wasn’t it. It was in part the feeling that his own progress was taking so long which bothered him. Already there were two members of the new Cabinet younger than he. Several had entered Parliament after him. Years stretched ahead as a junior and middle-rank minister before he could expect preferment; without special talent or luck, making the jump to Cabinet was by no means guaranteed. At the end he might be eased out, still largely unknown. A knighthood at best. Sir Roger Dickson. Caroline would become Lady Dickson, but so what?

Long ago as a small boy he had walked these streets near Parliament and wanted to touch the very stones. There had been no chance whatever of becoming an MP then. His family background was not exactly poor, but nobody in his household, in his street, stayed on at school or contemplated college.

But the leap had been made from that life of narrow horizons. Luck had played its part, certainly; and crucial support from wise old Lord Tarrant and his horsey daughter. Dickson had first understood himself to be ambitious when he was a boy on this pavement. For that reason he had rejected going into a factory and applied for a job at the head office of a small bank. The second whiff of it had come much later, in Tarrants Bank, when the boss’s daughter had taken a fancy to him. A sense of shock had accompanied the realisation that he was capable of going about his wooing quite coolly. Tarrants had long since become part of an international banking conglomerate, but its office in the Strand still stood proudly and it had kept its name. It had also retained its reputation for quiet, responsible service. Rather like his wife.

He loved Caroline. Of course he did. That was not in question; that was not the problem. Perhaps it was, in a way. He did not feel passionately about her; the marriage still had an air of a satisfactory arrangement. That passion was part of his nature he doubted, although when he contemplated his children, particularly the youngest, and the flicker of pain they generated in him, he knew that whereas he could survive losing Caroline – in a hunting accident, perhaps – and would remarry, the loss of a child such as Clarissa would break his heart.

It was reassuring that there was nothing much wrong with his emotional equipment. It had never been tested much. As a boy he had kept himself to himself, was a little distant with his older brother and sister, avoided falling in love, probably for fear of sentimental ties which might have chained him for ever to his background. That there was something cold-blooded about his constitution did not worry him. It did not make him a bad person. Indeed, for a political animal it could be a most useful attribute.

Perhaps all his emotion was reserved for the political world. It certainly took most of his energy. Caroline was possibly right that he was jaded. Thank goodness it would be recess soon.

He had arrived at the House of Lords end, but it was too early to go inside and his thoughts were still worrying him. On an impulse he turned right into the Embankment gardens, in the lee of Victoria Tower, then through the shabby iron gates with their long-neglected notices about park closing times. He strolled past the elegant small statue of Emmeline Pankhurst, down the path, to the grey stone embankment over the river itself. He folded his arms and leaned over, watching the muddy water.

Suppose he made a mental list of his faults and weaknesses as a possible future minister, much as he might for another candidate considered objectively, and cheered himself up with a similar list of his strengths? Then he could consider how to diminish the former and augment the latter. At least it would give the feeling that he was taking his career in hand, regaining control.

Strengths? Some came immediately to mind. Plenty of money – at least, no money worries, no need to leave the relatively poorly paid Commons for the City for that reason. Being comfortably off gave him political independence of mind and judgement. Actually, it was Caroline’s money, so personal independence was out of the question. A supportive wife and a happy home. Nothing rocky there. Good health, good character: both important. Too many careers had been jeopardised or ruined by a fondness for the bottle, for gambling and the like. A strong constituency and a first-class agent in Tom Sparrow, one of the old school, utterly loyal, fiercely competent. Part of his brain observed with detached amusement that his list was only appropriate for a continued political career: so he had not given that up, then.

Faults? Bit too easy-going. Ought to be more decisive. But that was because he could frequently see trouble coming and, by taking small steps, avoid it. He did love intriguing, which is why the whips’ office suited him so well. And his adroitness meant he had few enemies and a reputation for getting things done without friction. He was unfailingly courteous, on principle: you could get much further with politeness than with a row. That was translated as charm, to his surprise. Not really a fault, then.

Yet it was. Being too content in the endlessly shifting world of politics was the main reason others were making progress faster than he was. He did not push himself, did not ensure that others knew of his successes. Never blew his own trumpet and, to be truthful, didn’t know how. But a fault it certainly was. If he simply tried to stay put he would find himself settling, neglected, in the middle ranks, as other layers slowly and inexorably piled on top, like a garden compost heap in which the richest bits may be deep down, but no one ever bothers to find them. To improve matters meant seeking and taking risks instead of avoiding them. As a youngster he had felt driven: somehow he had to recapture that need to prove himself.

The brownish water lapped gently at the foot of the stones. Piles of flotsam, bits of rotten wood, old plastic bags, an empty Perrier bottle bobbed past. What a mess the Thames still was. It was hard to believe that salmon swam up river these days. Must be mad, or brave, or desperate, or all three, to take such risks in such a murky environment. Just like anybody decent in politics.

This discussion with himself was turning out unexpectedly useful. Even as ideas flickered through his brain he recalled in the brief conversation with Caroline his use of the clichéd phrase ‘Spending more time with my family’. That was a euphemism now widely used in British politics for a minister who had resigned of his own accord, probably before being pushed. Yet the Cabinet minister who had originally enunciated it had been nowhere near the push, and might well return to Cabinet before long. Maybe that chap had been serious. Perhaps his family had leaned on him. Dickson was sure Caroline would never do that. Was it thinkable that a man in Cabinet simply got bored?