A Woman's Place (33 page)

‘St Thomas's.'

There was a flicker of interest. ‘I know some of those people. I get treated there when I'm ill. What's his name?'

Karen gave the man a hard look. He was a little peculiar. Lachlan might not like the idea of her sharing his name with a stranger. She shrugged. ‘What's yours?' she asked.

‘I'm Graham Dunn,' the man volunteered and held out his hand. It smelled of soap but did not seem very clean. With some distaste Karen shook it. The skin was papery. ‘My name's Karen.' She did not venture any more.

‘You live near here?' He was evidently going to be persistent.

‘Not far.'

‘Me too. I live in a hostel in Jeffreys Road, but not for much longer.'

‘Oh?'

‘Yeah.' He looked pleased with himself but secretive. ‘My granddad's on his last legs. He's left me his house over Wandsworth way. Bit of a mess, it is, but then he's eighty-three. Don't expect them up and down ladders decorating at that age, do you?'

Karen did not need to feign indifference. ‘That's nice for you. Well, I hope you'll be very happy there … er, Graham.'

Swiftly she rose, patted Helen cordially on the shoulder and headed towards the changing rooms. At the door she glanced back. The man was attempting to engage the gloomy nurse in conversation, but with even less success.

Montague Spellman OBE tweaked his white gloves, pulled the red tailcoat down over his turkey-cock chest and surveyed the assembly with mingled pleasure and anxiety.

Apart from the Order of the British Empire awarded when he became President of the National Association of Toastmasters, it was a meagre tally of National Service medals that flashed on his bosom. Nevertheless a military bearing was his stock in trade. He lifted his head and stood on tiptoe. His full height would normally have left him still staring up at the average male guest. On this occasion, however, since the supporters of the One Nation group, of which he had never heard, appeared to be diminutive Asian and Chinese gentlemen and their even tinier wives, he could give most an inch or two. That pleased him, and intimidated them nicely.

The Prime Minister was due to attend: his non-appearance was the source of Montague's concern. To proceed without him would have upset his
amour propre
, not to speak of the chairman,
the new Lord Bhadeshia and his attractive wife.

Pramila Bhadeshia bit her lip and touched her husband's arm.

‘Do I look all right, Jayanti?'

Bhadeshia turned a trifle impatiently, then was halted by the pleading expression on Pramila's face. Her fingers trembled over her silver and gold sari. He could not condemn her as foolish; after all, it was his wife's ambition and courage over the years, not to speak of her commercial acumen, which had brought them both to the Empire Napoleon Suite in the Café Royal, and the grandest event of the year.

The toastmaster hovered indulgently as Jayanti chastely kissed his wife on the cheek and pretended to adjust the embroidered border of her sari. Her dark hair gleamed; drop earrings twinkled with diamonds, and the skin on her neck glowed in the light of the chandeliers.

‘You look like a goddess, my dear,' Jayanti whispered. A messenger hurried in. A hubbub arose as the guests realised that the Prime Minister had arrived.

Bhadeshia hurried forward. ‘Prime Minister!' he exclaimed excitedly. ‘We were worried about you!'

Roger Dickson tugged at the white tie which had been hastily donned in the Daimler and grunted. ‘I wasn't going to let you down – but we do have a crisis on and I may yet have to leave to vote. I trust you're not expecting a long speech from me.'

Secretly Bhadeshia had imagined a major prime ministerial announcement which would have etched both his own name and the dinner in the annals of British history. He hid his disappointment with an energetic shake of the head. Then he brightened: ‘But
I
will be speaking, sir, to give the vote of thanks. I will make a rabble-rousing plea for support for you and your government. I hope you will be able to stay for that.'

Roger pursed his lips. To slip away after such a warning might be tricky.

With formidable ceremony and portentousness the toastmaster consulted his list. He held up his hands for silence.

‘Prime Minister, my lord, ladies, gentlemen: are we ready? Then I will announce your entry. Thank you
so
much.'

The great doors were thrown open and even Jayanti could not suppress a gasp. The decoration was sumptuous. Down the long wall huge floor-to-ceiling mirrors reflected a thousand sequinned gowns, shimmering saris and shalwar kameez, and jewels of every hue. The circular tables were a feast of hothouse roses, gold and white menus, elegant crystal glassware and heavy silver cutlery. The porcelain was white, almost translucent, with the crowned ‘N' for Napoleon III whom the salon so oddly honoured. The whole effect was gloriously excessive. Jayanti held his breath in awe.

The evening would make a lot of money. Each meal cost £50 per head without wines, but many present, especially the Muslims, did not drink. The liqueurs, the flower arrangements, the specially boxed chocolates, cigars, the printing, the tombola and the pre-dinner reception had been paid for by intimates and colleagues whose smiles shone happily from the pages of the souvenir brochure. And not a soul had entered this room without forking out at least £250 per plate for the privilege: the surplus should be £200,000, maybe more…

The meal passed in a dream. Jayanti absorbed the compliments as dish after dish brought coos of delight: the Michelin star was well deserved. The mixed wood mushroom salad perched in artichoke leaves with pumpkin-seed oil dressing was reassuring to vegetarians present. The smoked haddock which followed was delightfully British. The noisettes of lamb with truffles and cream took into account the needs of both Muslims and Hindus, though he wondered whether the chef had ignored his instruction to leave out the Madeira. By the time the iced Armagnac soufflé appeared, its heart-shaped creaminess set off with candied orange peel and prunes soaked in yet more brandy, Jayanti didn't care whether anybody would be offended. The cheeseboard was on its way but he could
not manage another mouthful. Coffee next, then the speeches.

He leaned forward and coughed. ‘Prime Minister?'

Roger had been listening to Pramila's chatter and had discovered a great deal more about the Bhadeshias' background than his office had been able to ascertain. It sounded rather better than those articles in the
Globe
suggested. Lady Bhadeshia's appearance was a bonus. Yet he could not ignore forever the nudges from her husband on his other side. With genuine regret the Prime Minister fixed a smile on his face and turned.

‘I must congratulate you. This is a marvellous function.'

Jayanti waved a hand at the throng. ‘So many people were involved – I cannot take any credit. Your presence, sir, has made such a difference.'

‘You must be looking forward to your investiture in the House of Lords. Have you set a date yet?'

Jayanti tried to be modest and failed; pride shone nakedly from his face. ‘A fortnight's time.'

Waiters moved deftly among the tables. Jayanti hurried on. ‘There is a point I must put to you, sir. At once. All these unpleasant press articles against me and my family and business. Other Asians too. And on television. It is most unfair and they are telling lies. Can't you stop them?'

Roger reflected grimly that if he could tell the media what not to publish the whingeing criticism of his own administration might be a preferred starting-point. Iconoclasm had become a way of life for broadcasters and journalists, who then debated in all innocence why their audience felt so little confidence in public office holders. Increasingly his job felt like a mug's game.

‘I wish we could, but this is a free country. We can't tell the press what to do. More's the pity,' he added feelingly.

‘Surely they have to print the truth?'

Roger raised an eyebrow. That was a naive question. ‘You could sue,' he suggested unhelpfully, ‘but I shouldn't. It'd cost you a fortune and draw renewed attention to stuff you'd rather have forgotten.'

Jayanti opened his mouth to protest further, only to find Montague's whiskers tickling his ear. ‘Ready for the loyal toast, sir?'

The toast; the permission to smoke; the five-minute comfort break which led to an undignified rush for the toilets; the stragglers who slunk shamefacedly back to their places as the Prime Minister rose to his feet – Jayanti, in a daze, knew he would relive every detail to his dying day.

‘I am delighted to be present, and to honour Lord and Lady Bhadeshia,' Roger began, ‘who represent the best in the British Asian community.' His gestures invited his audience to applaud. Filled with excellent fare, bonhomie and love of their fellow man they responded warmly.

‘We are proud that this is a multi-racial society – probably the most successful multi-racial society in the world.' That was what the press release said, though it was perhaps a slight exaggeration. Roger ploughed on, with every ounce of sincerity he could muster. ‘But that confers obligations on the government. Every citizen in this country should be treated equally. No man or woman should have to suffer from discrimination in word or deed. That is the law. If necessary we will strengthen legislation and its enforcement to ensure that
all
our citizens can live and work in peace.'

A fine sentiment, Roger reflected. Not that any fresh proposals were in the pipeline. Peppering the Lords with a few more worthies would have to suffice – especially if they could lay on a do like this. Gracefully he concluded his remarks and sat down. He had sung for his supper; and been briefed to expect in return a handsome donation.

Bhadeshia's pulse pounded in his throat. A sackful of mail had arrived on the announcement of his peerage, mostly from people he had not known before. Enquiries about the East African project had inundated the office. His bank manager had been impressed and had extended his overdraft. What
a vast change it made, to be a name instead of a nobody: no longer an interloper, but a trusted mover in the highest ranks of society. And all it had cost was a little money he could easily afford, paid over to the party in power.

‘Mr Prime Minister!' Jayanti was conscious that his voice, as ever when he was nervous, had risen to a squeak. Try as he might the frantic treble persisted. He clutched his notes and paused, sweating.

‘We have much to celebrate today! The economy was in the grip of higher inflation – a lot of firms were going to the wall – unemployment touched three million – everything was very bad!'

A sardonic look had crept on to the Prime Minister's face. The problems described were hardly a cause for celebration. He hoped the speech was not going to turn into one long moan.

‘But now we have government with prudent policies! The unemployment is coming down every month and now stands at only two million. Balance of payments is improving! Exports are on the up! Growth rate better than all counterparts in Europe!'

Under stress, though he had written down every word, Jayanti had lost his grip on English grammar: both definite and indefinite articles were proving elusive. To his despair his accent was becoming more pronounced with every word. Fortunately most of his listeners had the gist and clapped politely.

‘I should like to mention, Mr Prime Minister' – he bowed in Roger's direction – ‘that in my opinion there are a lot of Asians in the wrong parties. They should all be Tories!'

The Prime Minister laughed and banged the table with the palm of his hand in approval.

‘Other parties have made a lot of false promises. I tell you it is all wrong. Asians want to buy their own properties – want to have their own enterprising businesses – want to give best education to their children – want to preserve their own culture and tradition –'

Yes, thought Roger silently, I can see that; and I can also see that that's where the problem lies. Yet by trying to preserve in aspic an unchanged tradition, British Asians denied the aspirations of the next generation. No wonder so many like Bhadeshia had worshipped the blessed Margaret – she had made their ambitions, with those of other self-made men, entirely respectable.

Loud ‘Hear, hears!' rang around the room. Jayanti, dancing with emotion, jabbed his finger in the air. ‘There are over sixty-five marginal seats in which Asian vote is vital. The sooner they come into the party the better!'

‘Well said,' Roger called out, and banged the table again.

‘Because by temperament all Asians are Conservatives!'

That was his
coup de grâce.
Panting, Jayanti acknowledged the thunderous applause. Light bulbs from a hundred cameras flashed. Then he remembered and reached inside his jacket.

‘I have here a presentation for you, Mr Prime Minister. Cheque is made out to Conservative Party. Please, I beg you take it. It is for … a quarter of a million pounds!'

The noise was deafening. Jayanti beamed, his task done. The Prime Minister's sharp hiss of breath told its own story. All over the world well-dressed men at dinner tables handed cheques to heads of government. From the United States to Malaysia, from France to Taiwan, money changed ownership both openly and in secret. In most countries far more was expected in return than any British government had ever, or possibly could ever, offer. Had Jayanti made his contribution contingent on a suppression of the
Globe
he would have been wasting his time. That he expected help in future from the important man at his side was undeniable. Whether it could be delivered remained to be seen.

At last the assembly rose as one to its feet and the Prime Minister moved away, the cheque safe in his breast pocket. Eyes ablaze with triumph, Jayanti held court, a dazzlingly happy Pramila at his side.

At the edge of the admiring circle stood a portly man, cigar clamped between his teeth, who
was known as a shipping magnate. As the crowd thinned the stolid figure moved forward.