A Woman's Place (32 page)

As he stood in line in the baking sun a trickle of sweat slipped down between his
shoulder-blades
. The crowd opposite chanted slogans and waved makeshift banners. Behind their barricades they were becoming increasingly agitated. He wiped the palms of his hands on his trouser legs and left dark patches. It was essential to get a firm grip on his night stick: it would be needed.

Next to him stood his sergeant, a massive man who towered over his troop. His heavy face was grim. His hand wandered time and again to the pistol in its holster. The noise from the crowd intensified. Drumming had started, loud and persistent.

The sergeant grunted an order. Joshua offered a whispered prayer. Two men nearby crossed themselves. Night sticks were lifted to the regulation height and angle and shaken menacingly towards the crowd, who shrank back briefly, then jeered louder. Together, as they had been trained, the line of policemen began to move forward.

The sergeant had his gun in his hand and shouted commands at the ringleaders. Behind their line, support jeeps slipped their clutches. A female voice could be heard screaming, somewhere among the rioters, spewing hatred at the police, the President, the foreigners…

A shot rang out, high and clear, a loud crack which echoed menacingly around the square. At Joshua's side a fellow officer shrieked, then fell and lay jerkily, blood from a chest wound oozing into the dust.

‘Chaaaarge!'

He had no choice. He loped forward, his breath in short rasps, uncertain what he would do next. The noise, the drums, the screams: more shots – the big sergeant was shooting wildly, directly
into the crowd, then suddenly, right in front of Joshua, he threw up his hands and fell.

As at a signal the rioters climbed over the barricades and raced for their victims. Joshua saw the man who would kill him, a machete raised in his fist, but felt only surprise as the first blow fell. It was a fate, he knew, that awaited the President he had been so proud to serve – if not that day, then very soon.

Within ten minutes not a single policeman was left alive.

The bodies were dragged round the town and abandoned in a tangled heap in the police station yard. It was from there, long after dark, that a grieving Mrs Mereginga, accompanied by her two eldest sons, collected her dead husband.

It was a bore, having to fill out claim forms every month. Bits of paper for this, signatures for that, as if he were a travelling salesman required to produce chits for each cup of tea, instead of one of Her Majesty's Ministers and an honourable Member of Parliament merely trying to do his job.

Derek Harrison lit a cigarette and ruminated. The ministerial salary stood at a few pounds over £54,000. That didn't bear comparison with the remuneration of, say, the Chairman of British Gas, who with half a million a year was one of the few people in the country who didn't need to win the National Lottery.

His pay came in two parts – £30,307 as a Minister of State and £24,985 as an MP; it was assumed, though for the life of him he could not see why, that a member of the government could be only a part-time MP, so the usual parliamentary allowance of £33,189 was docked by a quarter. Bloody insulting.

Then there was the car mileage. At 72.2 pence per mile for a car over 2,300 cc it looked generous, and indeed a typical journey home each Friday would generate some £180. Fiddles were, of course, available. Derek envied those lucky Scottish Members who might share a car and the petrol for a 600-mile round trip, then each make a claim yielding £400 a time. And nobody checked up on that claim for mileage within the constituency; if anyone officious ever tried they'd be led a
wild-goose
chase in the downs and dales of merrie England.

The assistance with the second home was particularly useful – £11,661 and not taxable. Well, it stood to reason: the job demanded that he work and stay in two places. Even a salesman could claim his hotel bills. Harrison could not recall, however, that he had once been asked to produce a receipt for the regular repairs and cleaning costs for the cottage in his patch. As it happened, the place was not mythical – but he wouldn't put that trick past certain colleagues.

The biggest sum was for secretarial expenses – £41,308 and tax-free. One year when he was short of funds he'd resorted to a modest fraud by inventing a part-time researcher and having the money paid into a bank account in Enfield. Couldn't do that now – too well known. Pity he didn't have a wife to employ. On the other hand, the odd impecunious girlfriend was grateful for a little recompense, though on the whole Harrison preferred his women wealthier than himself.

Every sou got spent: it would have been a crime to have left anything in the kitty. The silliest things were passed without a murmur, though he wished that Viking Office Supplies Direct sold better-quality toilet paper.

In all, it added up to a pretty penny. If most people thought their MPs were paid only that miserly £33,000, most MPs knew better. It still wasn't enough. Nobody honest ever made progress in politics
and
ended up rich. A chap must either create his fortune first like Michael Heseltine or wait patiently till the twilight years when consultancies and share options might float in his direction like so much shipwrecked treasure. A few, though, wily and clever like himself, had no desire to struggle in penury but intended to maintain a high lifestyle and gamer a little extra, discreetly, along the way.

In which case old pals and business partners were worth their weight in gold. Harrison signed the last chit, inserted it in an envelope for the Fees Office and turned contentedly to the newly minted
Bhadeshia share certificate which had arrived in that morning's post.

He would never get it right. He'd stop in the wrong place, trip over, bow at the wrong times. Their lordships, all of whom had executed this elaborate choreography before taking their seats, would whisper. It was said they awarded a new incumbent marks out of ten and would hiss when mistakes were made.

For the first time Jayanti felt scared. He would be mixing with the greatest in the land, the finest brains, men and women of the highest distinction. He did not deserve it. He was not, he knew, a man of enormous intellect. There were moments reading the
Financial Times
when he confessed to himself that he did not understand a word. If his wife wanted to watch television he could cope with
The Bill
and
Golden Shot
; Cilia Black was a particular favourite. But his new acquaintances would be connoisseurs of fine art and culture, of which Jayanti was completely ignorant. Once he had attended a gala performance of
Madame Butterfly
at the Coliseum and had fallen asleep, even though it was in English. He had no higher education, none whatever. He seldom read a book. He had no small talk or dinner conversation.

So how had he made it? Jayanti considered. Backbreaking hard work was the answer. Fifteen hours a day for years, doing the kind of job many Englishmen now regarded as beneath them, in post offices, small comer groceries and off-licences open all the hours that customers demanded. Prepared to trade on a tiny profit others would have turned up their noses at. Willing to serve the roughest areas. Supported by his co-religionists so that banks had neither stake nor share, and in his turn, as his efforts bore fruit, quietly offering finance to others on a word or shake of the hand. It all required a sharp eye and a feel for business, but hardly a degree from Harvard.

Yet that left him vulnerable. Once he stepped outside the community he lost the benefit of the doubt. Here he would be regarded as having something to prove: in this bizarre place, ablaze with its red leather and gold trimmings, he felt his store of resources seriously deficient, at least in comparison with what might be needed.

He wondered whether his desire to become a peer demonstrated his inadequacy. A businessman like George Horrocks, an insider, was exactly the type who would find himself effortlessly in the honours list. Such a man would comment that it was good for his firm, or for the team he led, but care little for himself. He might understand why it mattered so much to a Bhadeshia, yet a Horrocks would privately despise the ambition as worthless.

It was time for the rehearsal. Out of the Moses Room, one at a time, like nervous parachutists jumping over enemy territory. Into the Chamber, stop, bow towards the throne. Turn right, then left, and bow at the Table and at the Woolsack. Lord Archer, his junior sponsor, was in front. There he was, joking away, and turning right instead of left. Jayanti wished he would concentrate.

Kneel – one knee only. Give the Lord Chancellor his Writ of Summons. Back to the Table, put the hat down, take the oath and sign the roll. That was crucial, for everything else, including expenses, followed from that point.

But he was only halfway. Still with Lord Archer in front and his senior sponsor behind, he must proceed towards the back benches on the government side where he would expect to sit: mustn't forget to bow en route. Sit; put on hats; rise in unison, take off hats, bow. Sit down. Put on hats. Rise, take off hats, bow. Sit down. Again, a third time, not too fast: put on hats. The black tricorne concoctions made all peers look ineffably silly. Rise. Take off hats – hold them over the left breast. Bow. Stay standing.

My God! Jayanti could feel himself perspiring vigorously. Nothing as dreadful had been demanded of him since dance lessons as a child. Back down the steps, bowing in exactly the same
places as before – was that a total of ten or eleven times? – to end up at the Lord Chancellor's side, at which point a handshake would complete the ceremony.

Then he was expected to totter the few paces out of the Chamber and head for Tea Room or bar, where doubtless many of his new companions would shortly join him, at his expense.

For a moment Jayanti's heart fluttered and he shivered. The talk of writs and warrants unsettled him. The place was lousy with lawyers. He wished it was all over.

The Red Lion in Derby Gate was a short walk from Whitehall departments and the House of Commons, yet it was infrequently used by MPs. On a summer evening its pavements would be crowded with tourists nursing sore feet and junior civil servants sipping cold lagers. It was a perfect place to meet a staffer from a Minister's office who wanted a quick word before heading home.

Jim Betts put down his Guinness and appraised the anxious young woman seated across the table. Plain, freckled and a bit dumpy; barelegged, with open sandals of the kind once favoured by CND marchers. Possibly a leftie, then. And nervous – that was her second vodka and orange. Betts watched in interest.

‘Who did you say you worked for?' he enquired casually.

‘The Department of Health, Welfare and the Family, just over there.' The girl seemed to have difficulty pronouncing the name: she was obviously not used to the alcohol. It was not, however, the answer Betts required. He waited.

‘Derek bloody Harrison,' she spat out at last. Betts suppressed a smile.

‘Not the nicest guy around, at a guess,' he ventured.

‘He is not. He's also a crook.'

‘Is he now?' Opposite him the girl stared meaningfully into her almost empty glass. He reached over. ‘Would you like another?'

Over a further vodka the girl's tongue loosened. Betts heard much which both elaborated his view of Harrison and confirmed the links between him and his close friend Lord Bhadeshia. His companion was reluctant to talk about anyone else, though clearly she reserved no love for her boss Mr Chadwick either. In order not to put her off Betts refrained from taking notes. What he wanted from her, however, would have to be in writing sooner or later.

‘How do you know about all this – about the Bhadeshia shares, for example?'

‘Derek's so bloody proud of himself he'll tell you. Not in the office, of course,' she added hastily. Her eyes were glazing over. ‘In our own time … in bed. He's brilliant there.' She sighed morosely and drained her glass, then glared at her interlocutor. ‘But I won't talk publicly about that. It would break my mother's heart – she's Catholic, you know.'

‘And what do you want out of all this, Deirdre?' he asked softly. ‘Is it money? That could be arranged.'

‘Not money. And I don't want my name mentioned. I still have a Civil Service career, of sorts. But I'll send you whatever I can. You just print it, and I'll be delighted.'

Karen rubbed her hair with a towel, ran her fingers through to make it stand up spiky, debated whether to apply her make-up before or after a coffee and settled on the latter.

The exercise invigorated her. It was not only that the martial arts class made her feel more confident and assertive; the supervised stretching, the sweat-inducing leaps and kicks which brought suppleness and taut muscles also gave a healthy flush to her cheeks. With a toss of her still-damp head she joined other members of the class in the coffee bar.

‘I feel as if I could conquer the world.'

‘It's all right for you, a student. You want to try working in the Health Service.'

Helen was three years older than Karen, stick-thin, with a permanent frown and an
ever-present
cigarette. She was a nurse, currently on weekend shifts in casualty, and hating it. Karen wondered how such a sour personality had managed to choose the most caring of professions, but she kept her thoughts to herself.

‘It's not such a cushy life,' she countered, laughing. ‘We're forever short of money. Have to survive on shrinking grants and student loans. We have all the exams you have, and more. One of the people in the house I share is a medical student. He has the worst of both worlds, I guess.' She did not mention the occupation of the other residents; if pressed she would have said they worked at something boring in Whitehall.

‘Which hospital is he in?' The new voice was flat, the vowels betraying a Midlands origin. Brummie, or nearby, Karen estimated. Their owner was a thickset older man of clumsy movements and nondescript appearance: he seemed out of place in the class. Unnoticed he had carried his
coffee-mug
over to the noisiest table and hovered at the edge of the circle.