A Parliamentary Affair (81 page)

Elaine and Karen stood quietly at the back of the main group as the coffin was lowered into the ground. Beside them a senior police officer stood respectfully, leather gloves in hand, watching the crowd.

Karen was crying, very softly. After the morning’s exam she had spent a long session with Superintendent Collis, the man at her side. It had started as routine; everyone who had been at the office was being interviewed. Under his gentle probing it had slowly dawned on her that the bomb had in fact been intended for her mother, and that she had been the unwitting agent of Tom Sparrow’s murder. As yet the facts were being kept under wraps, as was the discovery of two more bombs, almost certainly delivered at the same time. The Superintendent had tried to cheer her up a little with the comment that it would be much easier now they knew what kind of packages they were looking for, but the thought that others might still face the same fate had caused her even greater horror.

Elaine moved closer and put her arm around her daughter’s waist. She had heard only the briefest version of the morning’s interview. That Karen was an entirely innocent party was not in doubt. Yet the girl’s recent emotional history gave cause for alarm, should she feel in any way blameworthy. An official police note was to go to the examiners, explaining the situation, though Karen had already turned down being excused any exams.

‘I’m all right, Mum.’ The girl sensed her mother’s anxiety. ‘I’m so sad, that’s all. What had Mr Sparrow ever done to upset anybody? He just wanted the election to go well. Those bastards! Why is it the good ones get hurt, and not them?’

Elaine shook her head. ‘It mustn’t stop us, Karen. Most of all, it mustn’t stop us saying things which do upset somebody. Behaving as if we have a gun at our heads all the time would be worse. It would mean that the wicked had won.’

‘After nearly thirty years of the Ulster troubles it makes you wonder what would stop them,’ came a sombre voice at her elbow.

Elaine started. Roger Dickson loomed large in a black overcoat despite the summer warmth. His expression was drawn. Behind him a hand-held TV camera was shifted, adjusted, its small spotlight searching Elaine Stalker’s face. She was glad of its presence, which would prevent any kind of intimacy. She spoke a few anodyne words to Dickson, then turned deliberately away, taking Karen’s arm.

Under the trees, out of camera-shot, the two women paused. Karen blew her nose, then for a moment, to calm herself, leaned on her mother, touching foreheads. The girl gazed into Elaine’s face.

‘He wanted to talk to you. Did you answer his phone calls?’

Elaine waited until she had her voice under control.

‘No.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘No, I’m not.’

It was as if the words came from far away, were borne to her on the quiet breeze, as if, for some remote, complicated reason, she owed it to Sparrow.

‘Never again. It’s over, though I don’t think he realises yet.’

‘Oh, Mum…’ The girl wrapped her arms about her mother and the two rocked gently, wordlessly together, mother and daughter, flesh of flesh, experience and innocence, spirit and body and mind, past and future, beginning and end.

Lieutenant-Colonel George Horrocks, Blues and Royals (retired), a tall fair-haired man, not quite fifty, slid his regimental tie inside his grey City suit, tinkled coins in his pocket and thought what fun he was having. It was the first time he had ever attended an election count. As Deputy Lord-Lieutenant, appointed by the Queen to represent her in Warmingshire with the Lord-Lieutenant and other deputies, he was obliged to be above politics. Nor had it been his taste to get involved. The political chaps who sat on his company’s board with their knighthoods and peerages had never impressed him enough to wish to join them; they always seemed to be drifters, half glad to be out of the hurly-burly of the Commons and relieved to be on the receiving end of decent incomes at last.

Yet here he was, and the electric atmosphere, the lights, the tension, the cameras, all struck him as quite marvellous. It was extraordinary: there was the feeling that here, in this draughty hall normally reserved for unemployed five-a-side, Asian women’s badminton and wheelchair handball, a spirit was abroad, a heady mix of independence, principle, politicking, devotion and choice, which had underpinned the nation for centuries. No, that was taking it too far. The ability to choose was much more recent than that. A century only had passed since the will of the ordinary people could be expressed peacefully and made effective. Though Mrs Stalker, over there in the smart blue suit, looking a bit tired now as one might expect, would probably claim it was not until women got the vote in 1918.

Mrs Stalker was standing talking to his sister-in-law, Betty. He would have to be careful what he said in their presence: the sort of City jokes which went down well in the club would displease these two formidable women. Probably quite rightly. Since Johnny’s death some years ago his widow had shown a surprising strength of character, though on reflection perhaps she was always the stronger of the two. Army wives had to be.

George Horrocks strolled casually across the hall, introducing himself. He watched fascinated as official party observers settled down to serious checking. Sporting the biggest rosettes, with red roses turning limp on their jackets, the Labour candidate and his wife sat side by side at a long wooden trestle table almost nose to nose with the counters opposite, as the box from Whittington was emptied in front of them. Each batch of twenty-five, pulled at random from the pile, was eagerly assessed. Four, five, six out of each batch were recorded for Labour. That could mean 20 per cent of the vote, or slightly less, in an area which was usually solid Tory. Yet the Liberal Democrat vote was similar. Elaine Stalker appeared to have won that ward hands down. The two moved on to another table where an urban ballot box was being tipped out. That gave a more promising preview,
suggesting that there Mrs Stalker was in line for barely one vote in three. Yet in the Labour ward the turnout was well down, whereas the Tories had got their supporters out.
It was going to be close.

Their Liberal Democrat opponent headed for the corridor, lit up a defiant cigarette and wondered what had possessed her to stand again. There had, indeed, been serious negotiations about this seat between party leaders. If one of the Opposition candidates had stood down it could have been wrenched from the Tories relatively easily. Yet her main backer, a local businessman, had been furious. It was not democracy, he declared, to deny the people their choice of candidates. She was to stand, and there would be more helpers: it would not be the shambles of last time. He was wrong, and it was, and she was angry, but still in a strange way she was glad they had not given way.

In the television studio in London, Lord Boswood pontificated happily, drawing his facts from thin air. With no results in yet it was impossible to tell what was happening. Exit polls were being offered only with the greatest caution. The boundary changes had proven somewhat unhelpful this time around, with good rural wards being withdrawn from marginal Conservative seats all over the place. Some seats would be lost; others might come storming through. He felt wistful, an old warhorse, out to grass.

At home Karen was tucked up in bed with a yoghurt and can of soft drink, a clipboard and newspaper listing at her side, watching the colour monitor on her dressing table. The deal was she could stay up until it was clear which side had won, but must switch off and slide into sleep by two in the morning, whether South Warmingshire had declared or not. Her mother had promised to come into the bedroom and tell her anyway, the moment she got home. Next day was the second Eng. Lit. exam, in its own way more important.

It was almost time. Elaine and Betty Horrocks exchanged glances.

All round the country candidates touched charms and whispered prayers. George Horrocks eyed the hopeful anxious faces in front of the platform, shuffled the papers, checked that the TV cameras were ready, and cleared his throat. In a way, the result itself did not matter. What mattered was that democracy was alive and flourishing. He stepped up to the microphone. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! May I have your attention please. The results in South Warmingshire are as follows…’