A Woman's Place (49 page)

George had never imagined the possibility of a refusal. As the door opened and Elaine disappeared under the hall light and up the stairs, he did not move or speak. Twenty minutes later, as another taxi dropped off late-night travellers, he was still standing there under the umbrella, the rain staining the shoulders of his coat, his greying hair slicked to his neck, his face grave and sad.

The '22 Committee was in an ugly mood. Alerted by gossip in the tea rooms and speculation in the morning's press, over 150 Members crowded into Room 14 – a telling contrast to the sixty or so who normally turned up on Thursday evenings. With self-important saunters they ran the gauntlet of reporters in the corridor outside; then the door was firmly shut.

The chairman smiled warily as he waited till each MP had found a seat. If Sir Tom Reynolds had learned one thing in his years in the prestigious committee chair it was that backbenchers, at their best a bastion of disciplined Britishness, could be fearsome when they felt like it. He rose and cleared his throat.

‘I call for the whip on duty to give us the business for next week.'

Johnson, the Deputy Chief Whip, stood. He was uneasy. Members looked too pleased with themselves. In his immediate vicinity sat the executive, elected by their fellows to give voice to the authentic grumbles of the backwoodsman: their faces were studiously innocent. But in front sat the most recent to join their ranks, Derek Harrison, in a new suit, and a tie with a dashing navy stripe, who exchanged whispers with his neighbours. His confident demeanour alarmed Johnson. Something was up – something beyond the control of the whips' office and thus impervious to their twin powers of coercion and patronage.

‘On Monday there will be a debate on the Criminal Justice (Scotland) (Lords) Bill,' Johnson intoned. The three Scots present mournfully made notes in their diaries. Since the party's representation north of the border was so thin, others would have to be press-ganged to help. Johnson peered around. Perhaps Harrison as a former Minister…? A detailed brief would be placed in the whips' office so he wouldn't have to strain himself with research or originality. But as Harrison, his consultation ended, sat up, Johnson pursed his lips. Whatever that one was planning it wasn't to help the current administration.

‘There will be a three-line whip at seven p.m.
and
at ten.' A groan went up. That meant no evening off; no opera, no theatre, unless a chap was prepared to miss half the last act. ‘There will be a two-line on Thursday at seven.' Much better. Members with pairs smirked. Brief questions were put, then Johnson resumed his seat. The chairman rose again.

‘If there are no further questions, I'll thank the whip on duty and ask if there are any notices of motions. Yes – Mr Harrison?'

It was clear this was prearranged. Harrison stood to loud applause from strategically placed friends: not clapping, but the traditional banging of the flat palms of hands on desks with a chorused bellow of support. The whip kept his expression impassive as Harrison began to speak.

‘First, Sir Tom, I think we should congratulate those involved in the successful “No” campaign on the referendum…'

‘Hear, hear!' came the roar of response, accompanied by further prolonged palm-banging. In the corridor, primed as to the likely timing, journalists checked their watches. The noise lasted a full minute.

Derek grinned. That roar had done its work. The suggestion floated by No. 10 that a second referendum might be held to reverse the result, as had happened in Denmark, would now be dropped. The '22 had just expressed a strong view to the contrary, which no party leader dared ignore.

‘But in truth, Sir Tom, I wanted to turn to a quite different matter which threatens us.' Colleagues settled down, though many present knew what was coming.

‘I am deeply concerned, as we all are, at the proposals from the latest report of the Nolan Committee,' Derek declared. Another rumble supported him.

Lord Nolan's committee had been set up by a previous Prime Minister who had found it difficult to believe his own Members might ever be seriously on the make. Its instructions had been to
examine allegations of ‘sleaze' which had entertained and shocked the nation for several years, and to recommend means of avoiding such problems in future. It had, however, set about its task far too thoroughly for some.

‘Not only have ex-Ministers been banned from paid positions with companies linked to their former departments, which causes
genuine
hardship for some.'

‘Right, tell 'em, Derek,' growled a voice at his side. Both men had been barred from lucrative directorships once Lord Nolan had seized the bit between his teeth. Harrison hoped he looked martyred, but saw that most of the '22, who were never likely to have the chance to dig their snouts into the deepest troughs, were not over-sympathetic. He hurried on.

‘Far worse, it appears that we're to be banned from any links with so-called lobbying companies. That will mean Members are expected to give up a great deal of time to important issues – Sunday trading, for example, or the Channel Tunnel Link – yet work for free. Nowhere else in the country are people obliged to toil for goodwill alone. I think we should make it quite clear, behind the scenes, that such action would be
intolerable
.'

‘Absolutely right,' the man behind him commented audibly to another. ‘What'll we do if we can't be parliamentary advisers? It'll turn us into paupers, that's what.'

‘Drive good men away, it will,' a companion concurred. ‘Look at us. Too busy to earn a decent living outside, can't turn a quick penny inside – what's the place coming to?'

Derek had not finished. His voice became deeper. ‘But there is a far more grave proposal which we should fight with all the power at our command. That is the idea that the activities of parliamentarians should be regulated by an outside body – even subject to law.' He surveyed the packed room which, shocked and hushed, hung on his every word. ‘Since time immemorial this House has regulated itself. It makes its own rules – often harsher than outside. If any Member transgresses, it is for the House and its committees to investigate and put right. To abandon this
time-honoured
system – the Committee of Privileges in particular – would mean the total loss of our cherished independence.'

A sigh of agreement emanated from almost every throat.

‘We must ensure that the existing arrangement is preserved and that no
short-term
, short-sighted solutions to recent … ah … difficulties be allowed to emerge,' Derek continued. The chairman was signalling to him that his time was up. ‘Whatever the public think, we know that such trivial matters as “cash for questions” or the acceptance of hospitality, even at the Ritz Hotel, are blown up by a politically motivated press to discredit us. We've already tightened the rules on declaration of interests. MPs declare jars of honey and free golf club memberships – it's reached ridiculous proportions. If Parliament is to restore its age-old reputation we should be –
must
be – permitted to discipline ourselves.'

That went down fine with his fellow backbenchers. Johnson bowed his head in acknowledgement. Harrison's skill had to be recognised – he had scored two hits in as many minutes. Not that it would wash with the voters. The old whip reflected gloomily that MPs' standing depended not on whether their transactions went unrecorded or how they were reprimanded, if ever, but on their behaviour in the first place. If those present could not grasp the widespread disgust at their receiving money in circumstances which amounted to bribery and corruption, then no amount of rule-tweaking would enlighten them. Or stop them, either.

As the committee broke up and Members began to surge towards bars and dining rooms or home, Harrison paused in the corridor, surrounded by an avid group of journalists and acolytes.

‘Yes, I think that'll be the end of any talk of joining the single currency,' he remarked breezily. ‘Do I think that'll result in Britain being left behind? I hope so – I'd rather be poor but proud with the pound, than have the German Mark in our pockets. We want elected politicians to run this
country, people like us, not faceless foreigners.'

His attention was caught by Ted Bampton, who had emerged from another committee room and begun to stride away down the corridor. Deftly Harrison extricated himself and made off in the same direction. As he caught up, he glanced over his shoulder: the press had found other quarry. He put a hand on Bampton's arm.

‘A quick word, Ted.'

Bampton turned. ‘Derek? What can I do for you?'

Harrison lowered his voice. ‘Sort out your Minister of State, that's what. She's holding up an important deal by her refusal to close that hospital – the one where the murder occurred in the middle of a demo against her. There'll be more trouble, mark my words, if it isn't shut at once.'

‘I don't know why she's that bothered.' Bampton was wary. He had liked Derek and enjoyed a good rapport with him; in his private view, the man's sacking had been dreadfully unfair. With Elaine, on the other hand, he was permanently uncomfortable. Matters had not gone as far as open warfare, but he could not trust her one inch not to do or say something stupid.

‘No good reason, you may be sure. She's trying to show you up, Ted. Make you look uncaring while her own image with the public is all sweetness and light. You're the main sufferer, you do realise?'

Bampton frowned. If Derek was hinting that his subordinate would go further and align herself with his enemies – and Ted, like most political animals, took it for granted that he must have some – then he was prepared to listen. He was fed up making excuses for her, and answering questions from the press on the wilder remarks she had made. ‘She's quite a favourite of the PM's. And a bit over-sensitive to criticism. Have to handle her like a new-born baby.' He patted Derek's arm. ‘Anyway, thanks for letting me know. That's useful. Buy you a drink?'

Not exactly arm in arm, but with an evident degree of closeness, the two men headed unhurriedly down the stairs.

Betty Horrocks drove cautiously into Tesco's car park, threaded her way past shoppers pushing awkward laden trolleys and stopped ostentatiously in the comer spot. Within a few moments Elaine arrived and parked in the next space. Clipboards in hand, the two women lounged against their vehicles and waited.

Betty pulled her scarf tighter round her neck, raised her nose to the wind and sniffed appreciatively. ‘Spring's in the air,' she announced. ‘Can't you smell it? Daffodils and crocuses and fresh green leaves. Lambs in the fields. Love it.'

‘Better than canvassing in the rain,' Elaine agreed. ‘How many helpers do we expect today? The candidate for the council seat, of course. Our lone YC – here he comes. Anyone else?'

Betty hid her concern. ‘I've had eight promises, but you know what people are like on a Saturday afternoon. Racing and rugby on the box. And everybody's shopping – we might do better simply handing out leaflets at the store entrance.'

The Young Conservative, James Turner, approached and shook hands. Elaine took in his solid Warmingshire frame, his honest expression, the youthful solemnity. Back in the fifties, she had been informed, the YCs in South Warmingshire could gather three hundred for a dance, though a faithful band of barely thirty would volunteer for political activity. So much for history. She craned her neck and searched over the tops of cars for more familiar faces. It was ten minutes past the hour. Nobody else was coming.

‘Let's get cracking,' she suggested. ‘Can't hang about. James, you take the evens. Betty and I will do the odd numbers.'

Together they began to walk down the street. Elaine reminded herself that Chairman Mao had begun his Long March with a handful of companions: by the time it was over he had conquered
China. The reflection pleased her.

How tough it was to keep grassroots politics alive when nobody else felt like it or could see the necessity. The great political parties were mass movements or they were nothing. Door by door, in a marginal seat such as her own, each vote was contested, persuaded, convinced or lost. The most invaluable ingredient in democracy was shoe leather.

Half an hour later the candidate for the forthcoming local council elections caught them up with profuse apologies – he had forgotten, he said. Betty pursed her lips and wordlessly handed him a canvassing sheet. It would not do to berate him; it was so difficult to get anyone to stand who could put two words together and wasn't a raving fascist that one had to be grateful.

Elaine swung into a steady rhythm and was soon tingling and warm. Open the gate; up the path or across the lawn, ring, smile, introduce herself – though that was not necessary at most houses. Ask not how the individual would vote
this
time since many would not say, but how he voted
last
time, and whether anything had happened since to cause a change of mind. That gave the punters the chance to moan, but at least the canvassers would emerge better informed. Even as she received polite refusals she still enjoyed the magic of participation, the possibility of influencing events, albeit in a minuscule way. The news so gleaned was not uniformly happy. The Sunday newspapers next day would emblazon on their front pages the government's wavering support. She knew it before they did, on every doorstep.

As dusk came the team called it a day. James, stoical and cheerful, bade a respectful goodbye and moved off. The candidate shivered, looked at the darkening sky, muttered an offer to do more during the week and followed suit. Elaine watched their departure, then bent over the car bonnet, calculator in hand.

‘This ward voted eighty per cent for us at the general election, we know that. Well, they've forgotten – or pretend to. Barely half the households we've seen claim to have been with us last time. Of those, a fair proportion say they see no reason to change their minds back to us again. We have a guaranteed thirty-two per cent here, Betty. Bit bleak.'

‘Not enough,' Betty agreed. ‘Never mind – mustn't give up.'

She patted her MP affectionately on the arm and left. Less energetic, she was chilled to the bone and longed for hot cocoa with a drop of rum. It had been on the tip of her tongue to ask what Elaine was doing for the remainder of the day but she decided against it. A quiet evening in front of the television would thaw her out. If her numbers came up on the National Lottery that'd be thrilling. She began to dream how to spend the money.