A Woman's Place (43 page)

Bampton was about to open his mouth but thought better of it. He had heard such sentiments long before as a young factory manager after a prolonged strike. In the manner of the times it had been attributed to rampant trade unionism, not to poor management. How could it be his fault if something similar occurred here too?

Dickson leaned forward. ‘You have one excellent Minister left in Elaine Stalker. I hope you're looking after her better than the two you've managed to lose so far.'

Bampton reacted indignantly. ‘Mrs Stalker can look after herself perfectly well. I must take issue with you. Babying grown men and women is
not
part of my job. Most of all, not her. Roger, you know my views on women MPs and the like. If you want to move her elsewhere I'd be willing.'

It was on the tip of the Prime Minister's tongue to lambast Bampton's misplaced belligerence. The unhappy expression on his Minister's face, however, suggested he had gone far enough. He murmured noncommittally and moved on to the question of a substitute for York.

The exchange left him deeply uneasy. He brooded on how he might arrange to have a word with Elaine, if only to warn her.

His face was everywhere – plastered over the tabloids, particularly the
Globe
, but the
Daily Telegraph
had it prominently on the front page with an almost verbatim report of the committal procedures occupying the whole of page three. The
Times
photo was larger but its inside story smaller; it would make up for that, however, on Wednesday when Bernard Levin would thunder about the irrelevance of the doings of minor government functionaries. The
Financial Times
speculated on the effect of the resignation on interest rates. In the
Daily Mail
Linda Lee Potter blamed the parents. The
Sun
had a ‘Kiss My Arse' competition adorned by Anthony's features. The
Independent
forgot all about it and the
Guardian
spelled Anthony's surname ‘Yorke'.

Journalists and cameramen had tried to board the train with him, but transport police, used to football hooligans, had efficiently confined them to the platform. Some ran from carriage to carriage searching for him, pressing their noses to the windows. Anthony locked himself in the toilet cubicle. At last the train moved off and he felt it safe to emerge.

The first-class carriage was not crowded. Anthony chose the seat facing front nearest the door. He wanted to be quickly away when the train drew into Bristol. A pile of newspapers lay in front of him along with a book. For a few moments he tried to concentrate, head bowed, but the discordant noises in his head took over. He turned the paperback over and, as was his wont, stared out of the window.

The backs of houses flashed past, first in tight terraces, their roof lines dissected by firebreaks according to the law in London since the Great Fire, their narrow yards littered with bicycles, old cars and discarded rabbit hutches. Then came net-curtained older semis in the suburbs, their gardens varying from the shabbily paved over to the immaculate. As the train picked up speed through dormitory towns the houses were newer, built of red brick like skinned flesh, clustered together with minute gardens. The product of eighties greed: the bearers of negative equity. Some of those properties, Anthony reflected sadly, would represent a loss to their unlucky owners till well into the next century. From his vantage point he could see the tops of foliage turning yellow at the edges. By the time his erstwhile colleagues arrived at the annual Conference the branches would be bare.

His next appearance in court would occur on the Monday of Party Conference week. The story would be all over the press again like a mud-tide, blotting out the careful news management devised by the spin doctors, blanketing important statements, infecting the whole assembly. Thus on the Tuesday he, Anthony York, would dominate the nation's affairs, not Ted Bampton, who had planned to announce the new department's policies with a great rhetorical flourish. Before this, Ted might have merited a warm welcome and a standing ovation. Not now. Anthony slipped down a little in his seat and wished he could disappear altogether.

He could not grasp clearly what had taken place. He had not slept since his arrest but had lain awake, eyes open, staring at unfamiliar ceilings. Both body and mind felt completely numb as if dosed with an anaesthetic which had not yet worn off. He wondered dully whether, when it did, he would feel a resurgence of the old frantic worries. Churchill had known what he'd called ‘black dog', but had emerged each time full of bounce and optimism. That was a kind of manic depression well recognised among great men, who were spurred on to acts of huge achievement as if fearful that their next snake-filled pit could be their last. Anthony doubted whether he himself would ever feel anything but listless again.

In which case, what was he good for? His had been the shortest ministerial tenure in living history; he had made himself a laughing stock. He would never achieve high office. The best he could expect, years on, might be a vice-chairmanship of the party – and even that would produce sniggers. More immediate considerations intruded. The thought of the hate mail which would flood in left him near despair. Nor could he consider running advice bureaux for months yet, if ever. If he could not summon up the courage and vitality to tackle the most mundane tasks for his constituents, could he continue as an MP?

How limited his activities would have to become. It occurred to Anthony bitterly that never again could he be the first to leap to help someone in difficulties: he would hesitate even to assist somebody across the road, for fear of the sentence beginning, ‘Aren't you…?' The nightmare would not be over with his sentence; it would have just started.

‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. The buffet is now open for tea, coffee, hot chocolate, a selection of beers, wines and soft drinks, sandwiches … The buffet car is situated towards the front of the train between first and second class.'

The twanging West Country accent reminded Anthony that he had eaten nothing since breakfast in the cells. His appetite then had been non-existent but the hours since and the gently rocking motion combined to make him almost hungry. He fumbled in his pocket for coins and rose from his seat.

The moment he arrived in the narrow corridor of the buffet car he knew it was a mistake. Four large men in T-shirts and donkey jackets were leaning on the bar cradling beer cans and chatting to the young steward. Anthony surmised from the cement dust on their clothes and hands that they were construction workers. From their manner it appeared they had been drinking for some time. As he entered the men turned around curiously.

‘Well, what 'ave we 'ere?'

‘City slicker, don't touch, Harry. No offence, mate.'

‘Maybe 'e'll buy us a drink.'

The four looked at him hopefully. Anthony coloured but ignored them. He gestured to the steward. ‘A coffee, white, please. And what sandwiches do you have?'

A hoot of laughter greeted him. ‘Wot
send
-witches do you
heff
. Love it!' The leader took a step forward. ‘Well, mate, don't, then. We're on our way home – just finished a big job at Staples Comer. Two months early so we've big bonuses coming. In a mood to celebrate. So wotcha name, then?'

It was clear the men expected him to spend his journey at the bar like themselves. The steward bent his head and muttered his wares, then handed over a ham sandwich made in a factory the day before and a plastic cup of coffee.

One of the men was examining Anthony carefully. He reached into the back of his jeans and brought out a rolled-up newspaper. He peered again at Anthony, then unfolded it and nudged his neighbour, who suddenly straightened and pointed.

‘Ooh, that's right. You know you're a dead ringer for that politician, this one 'ere? That raving queer wot got arrested wiv 'is finger up somebody's bum. You're not 'im, are yer?'

In his haste Anthony nearly dropped the coffee. Stuttering excuses he stumbled out of the buffet car and back to his seat. After a moment, to his horror, the door slid open and four faces appeared above him.

‘It is. Blimey.'

‘Don't touch. 'E's probably got a disease.'

‘Don't fancy that, do you?'

‘Should be put in prison. They all should.'

‘Cut it off!'

‘Probably 'asn't got one!'

This last sally was greeted with raucous laughter which caught the attention of the other occupants of the first-class carriage. Once it was realised that the banter came from four solid-looking drunks, discretion became the better part of valour. Heads slipped behind newspapers. No one would come to his aid.

Anthony found himself breathing rapidly. If he acknowledged his tormentors that would only encourage them. If he pretended they did not exist that might goad them further. He began to feel apprehensive. What might they do, on a train with open carriages? He looked up: he could reach the emergency handle. But that would bring the train to a screeching halt and attract precisely the kind of official censure he was desperate to avoid. The louts would claim they were having a harmless bit of fun. Given his new reputation, nobody would believe his version. He might even face further charges.

Sticks and stones. The worst they could do was gabble obscenities. Those he could and should ignore. Easier said than done.

Anthony gagged. The sandwich was cold, the ham slimy. In his ear the builder was crooning a love song, rolling his eyes to the suggestive lyrics. Anthony kept his eyes fixed firmly forward but prayed inwardly. My God, was it always going to be like this – a target for public ridicule, as if he had no feelings left? It had taken John Profumo thirty years' hard labour to recover his reputation – but then he had been a Cabinet Minister and had lied to the House, neither of which was true of Anthony. Minor miscreants such as Keith Best or Eric Cockeram, who had quit Westminster after buying more privatisation shares than the law allowed, had vanished from sight. But infamy for an incident like his own would last a lifetime.

He shoved the remaining sandwich back in its plastic wrapper and finished the coffee. It would not do. He should not be considering merely the impact of his action on the outside world, or of its reaction to him. He was a self-starter. He had his own code. Sooner or later he would have to come to terms with what he had done. His sternest judge would be himself. Judge, jury. And executioner.

The continued commotion had at last brought the senior guard, a small dark man with a pronounced accent.

‘Now then, gentlemen! This is the first-class section. May I see your tickets,
please
.'

With great deliberation he examined each ticket. Everyone knew what was coming next.

‘You must return to your seats. You are not supposed to be in here. They're not bothering you, are they, sir?'

Anthony did not reply but the trembling of his hand on the table was sufficient. The conductor moved swiftly to shoo the men out. A muffled conversation and much chortling could be heard behind him in the corridor. Then the door swished open once more.

‘Ahem!' The conductor adjusted his cap and pulled out a notebook. ‘Mr Anthony York, is it? Yes. I've been reading about you. Would you be so kind as to give me your autograph?'

At the station his parents waited, his father poker-faced and gaunt, his mother wringing her hands and crying. He had told them not to come, that he would take a taxi, but the imperative of family duty had overcome their fears. Their presence made him feel grateful. Someone would stand by him, even
though there was no chance of their understanding what had happened, or why.

His heart sank. The press were also present in droves – not only the locals, whom he recognised from better days and who approached apologetically. Stringers and freelances galore, their camera flash-bulbs popping, mini-recorders at the ready, faces hard, scrambled for a foothold on the platform. Three television crews, the sound booms swinging wildly overhead, cameramen with portables on shoulders and blind to everyone else, elbowed, shoved and trod on feet. The naivety of the station manager, or maybe a private willingness to see a criminal humiliated, had permitted this invasion. Anthony stopped, appalled, at the phalanx of bodies which barred his way.

Two young women from rival radio stations leapt at him and shoved microphones under his chin.

‘Mr York! Mr York! Have you any comment to make?'

‘What were you doing…?'

‘Are you a homosexual…?'

‘What do you say to the remarks of John Redwood…?'

Anthony had no idea what Mr Redwood might have said and was unsure that his activities were any of the man's business. Mouth set, he shouldered his way through, parents in tow, aware that the following day's photographs would show him scowling and bitter.

Someone pulled at his sleeve and would not let go. He swung brusquely around. A leering face thrust itself into his.

‘Going to land a punch on me too, were you? Go on, then. Pete, you got the camera ready?'

They were everywhere – hanging over the gate to the house, in a neighbour's drive. Several scruffy cars in the pub car park revved and made to follow as his father drove past.

‘We have spoken to the local police and have a number to call if it gets too intrusive. They were helpful.' His father manoeuvred around the pressmen and scraped the side of the car against the gatepost. Flash-bulbs popped. ‘Damnation.'

‘They'll give up eventually.' Anthony could think of nothing else to say. In a family in which real discussions never took place conversation was limited to details. ‘They'll find somebody else to harass.'

Behind him his mother sobbed once, then gulped, caught her husband's glance in the mirror and buried her mouth in a handkerchief. Mr York sped up the drive and parked with a scrunch of gravel.