The Touch of Innocents (23 page)

Weighty stuff, but words which would not shift the Opposition Defence Spokesman, a dour Lancastrian called Stubbins, a man of such considerable girth that he had inordinate trouble shifting himself. A man who had ‘terrorized tailors all the way from
Blackburn to British Home Stores’, as Devereux had once mocked to great effect.

But it was not the Opposition whom Devereux had to convince: the Duster’s future – his future – lay in the hands of a small cohort of sceptics within his own ranks who doubted one or other aspect of the deal. Small in number they may be, but it would take only a handful of deserters to swamp the battalions of a Government whose majority numbered less than two dozen.

So he had reverted to the basic tactic of parliamentary debate: unity through abuse, of either editors or Opposition. Devereux’s moist eye had roamed across the green leather benches before him in distaste; the Opposition comprised a mongrel collection of interests and ideologies, utterly lacking in breeding or distinction, fit only for snapping at the heels of those with greater stature. Those like Devereux. Yet there was danger when they hunted as a pack.

He pointed directly at Stubbins, while addressing his own troops. ‘The Honourable Gentleman was once against this project – as a matter of principle. But when he realized that the deal I had negotiated might bring hundreds of new jobs to his constituency, he changed his mind – as a matter of expediency. Then his so-called colleagues got to him, and twisted his arm, so now he says he’s not sure – as a matter of intimidation.’

Devereux shook his head in a theatrical gesture of disbelief. ‘He doesn’t know what to think, Madam Speaker, but I for one wouldn’t condemn him.’

Devereux turned to wave a hand of admonishment at the jeers of derision which he had manufactured behind him.

‘No, I wouldn’t condemn him for admitting that
he doesn’t know what to think. Why, it’s probably the most honest political statement he’s made in his life!’

The jeers aimed at Stubbins turned to cheers of support for his tormentor, accompanied by the animated flapping of Order Papers. Devereux was providing a lead, staring straight into the eyes of the enemy, and his parliamentary troops were rallying.

Yet of itself, abuse was not enough. Sceptics from his own side required much more considerate handling. Alternately he gripped and pounded the Dispatch Box in front of him – the same polished buriti and bronze piece on which his father had leaned and eventually sagged – pausing on occasion to rest one elbow upon it in order that he might turn and face those to his rear, those who should be backing him, those who might yet overwhelm him from behind; arguing, disputing, cajoling. To those who had feared an excessive concentration of defence options into one weapons system, he had shown a remarkable grip of technical detail; to those who questioned the financial prudence, he had argued a carefully prepared case emphasizing the greatly improved terms he had wrung from the Americans.

‘In our hands lies the future of the trans-Atlantic alliance,’ he had told one doubter. ‘Today we in Britain are the linchpin of the democratic world, the bridge which brings the two halves of freedom together. Yet if we desert our American allies at this late juncture, they will surely turn to others in Europe for friendship and reliability. We would find ourselves alone, a small island drifting somewhere between Europe and the Americas, a part of neither, untrusted, unloved. And largely undefended.’

The performance was impressive. In a Chamber
deprived of the rhetorical skills of the past by the ever-expanding pressures of parliamentary business and sound-bite television, Devereux’s words and confident mannerisms were refreshing, gathering ever more doubters to his banner.

But it was not enough, not yet. There was still the Chairman of the Defence Select Committee, a Cockney, elevated largely through his own elephantine persistence and the excruciating ineptitude of his rivals, and whom it was so easy to dismiss yet so dangerous to underestimate. And he was still not satisfied. The man sensed the omissions, knew there was more, parts of this deal as yet unexplained and which he wanted laid before the House. Yet how could Devereux reveal that he had badgered and brow-beaten the Americans into offering up the United Nations, stuffing that little Cypriot upstart and fixing a vote-winning propaganda visit to Washington? These were deals done behind closed doors which could not bear the light of public scrutiny, which would embarrass both allies, which could be written into no accord or memorandum of understanding. They were triumphs for a future day. And his diaries.

They were secret, and the Select Committee Chairman hated secrets. He had longed to be a Minister but had consistently been denied – no one could or would say why. One of those things. No justice, no reason. Politics. Nothing to do with his unfashionable East End background, they assured him, let alone his inability to tell Burgundy from best bitter. But the injustice rankled and, having failed to gain entrance to the club, he had instead established his parliamentary reputation by playing the Jacobin and dragging the club’s members out from behind barred doors for public inquisition. If
not a man of power, then he would be a man of the people.

He rose from his seat three rows behind Devereux and in high-pitched Cockney tones addressed the tight waves of hair on the back of the Minister’s head.

‘Well done, yes, very well done. So far, so good. But, Madam Speaker, we so often find on these occasions that we’ve only been given half the picture. Can my Right Honourable Friend give the House his personal assurance that there are no – well, what you might call “knots” – no intertwined strings, no hidden commitments, nothing tucked under the pillow which might influence the judgement of the House on this vital issue?’

Turd, muttered Devereux, and smiled.

‘All too often in such matters we’ve learned only long after the event of clandestine conditions and undertakings – bar-room deals which this House would never have accepted – well, it’s precisely why over the years Governments have been in the habit of making them clandestine. But is my Right Hon Friend aware that he won’t be forgiven if at a later stage we find out he’s dropped us in it, has deceived the House, if not by lying – no, God forbid any Minister should lie to this House – then at least by concealing the full truth?’

Devereux rose, turning a full 180 degrees where he stood to look directly at the Chairman. You miserable worthless East End excretion, he chanted inside, you sanctimonious little shit, he sang to himself, before smiling more broadly still and returning to lean on the Dispatch Box.

‘What can one say? On such occasions there is no evidence, no proof that can be offered to satisfy my Honourable Friend’s enquiry. All I can do is to tell
him that I have examined every part of this project personally, studied every spigot and specification, read and rewritten every line of the relevant agreements, and then read them all again. I came rather late to this project, as he knows, but in all modesty I now regard this project as being my own. I can assure him that nothing has been hidden, and that everything has been considered. I can give him no proof of that which does not exist, I can only give him my considered and strongly held judgement, and my word of honour. I hope he will feel able to accept both.’

Devereux and the Duster. Or neither.

And with a short nod of consent from the now-sedentary Chairman, he was free. He had shown skill of both negotiation and explanation, and mastery of detail; it was an all too rare combination which had impressed even his enemies. And as editorial after laudatory editorial would confirm on the coming day, by cementing his own fate to that of the Duster he had made it probable that both would soar.

It did not need the Father of the House, the Member of Parliament with the longest period of continuous service, to rise unsteadily from his place below the central gangway in order to confirm Devereux’s personal victory, but nevertheless he did. The octogenarian caught Madam Speaker’s eye and the House hushed, out of respect and of necessity, to catch the quavering voice.

‘May I say to my Right Honourable Friend that I was a member of this House’ – the old man’s tongue ran across cracked lips as he pointed an unsteady finger – ‘when at an earlier time his father stood before that same Dispatch Box? He has done honour to his family’s name today. May I say – and I think
I can say without any danger of contradiction – his father would have been well pleased with the way he has handled not only himself and his departmental brief, but also this House?’

Intended as a fulsome accolade, it was recognized as such by all around.

The words were still ringing in his ears as Devereux reached the privacy of his parliamentary office and hid behind the closed door, losing track of time and diary obligations as he stared, transfixed, into the lying eyes of his father.

‘Pleased? Are you pleased?’ he whispered. ‘How could you be? I’ve not only matched you, I’ve beaten you. I’ve won, don’t you see? Standing there, in your shoes, in your place. But not mocked and derided, not like you, not throwing it all away. At last I’m free, free of you. Rot in hell!’

There was no pleasure in the invective. No conviction, either. Somewhere within, a wire was cut. As he slumped into the chair at his desk and his watered eyes turned from father to ornately framed portrait of his daughter, he let out a fearful sob of despair. Because he could never escape his father. Chains beyond the grave.

Was it not his father who had instilled in the young Devereux the belief that women were objects to be used and if necessary abused, be they wife, housemaid, nanny or any other he met in an alcoholic fit? Who had stretched out his hand only to chastise? Who had deprived the son of any tolerable concept of family, of mother and father, of life within the walls of a home bound with love rather than barbed wire? Who had taught him to inflict sex as a matter of punishment rather than pleasure? And who thereby had led the son’s wife to despair and degradation, and ultimate suicide?

The family’s influence had ensured the inquest recorded a verdict of accidental death, a stumble on the cliff top, but Devereux knew better. She had walked with purpose, not so much jumped as been pushed.

By him.

By his father.

It had enabled Devereux to act out the role of gentle widower, loyally clinging to memories, but –
God!
– it was the memories which clung to him as leeches sucking blood and stifled any chance of normal human relationships and happiness. Behind the facade of public acclaim there was nothing, nothing but shame and suffering, utter loneliness, nothing but the hypocrisy of public esteem covering a private agony, the corrosive legacy of his father.
Nothing
.

Except for Paulette.

And it was through his beloved Paulette that Devereux knew he had not won, could never win. For he cared, cared too much, perhaps, had covered his eyes to her faults just as his determination to succeed may have covered his eyes to her needs. Her faults were his faults; she was the only thing he had, he could not blame her. Blame his father instead. Blame himself. Make any sacrifice, take any risk. So long as it might save Paulette. Whatever she had done.

As he held the photograph of his daughter in front of him, he could see reflected the image of his father and, in the reflection, distortion. The eyes carefully painted in sincerity seemed to glint with malice, the lips in smile now seemed to scorn, to shout that you have not beaten me! It is I who have beaten you! In the only thing you have ever cared about, the raising of your beloved daughter. You loved her as you have hated me, the only two sincere emotions of your
life. Yet it is I, a womanizing drunk, a man in whom you could find no credit, who did a better job of raising you, miserable wretch that you are, than you have done your own daughter.

‘Look at her!’ the reflection seemed to cry. ‘You vowed you would never be like me, never lose your grip, would always be in control. Control!’ the image mocked. ‘You cannot even control your own daughter!’

A more worthless father than was ever his own. As the reflected image mocked, Devereux buried his face in the photograph of Paulette.

‘You bitch,’ he wept.

Children. She wondered what made them such a force. Objects so tiny, so weak and pathetic, yet of such irresistible might. Who, before they were born or even conceived, could bind together relationships. Or tear them apart. And whose tiny fingers somehow never let go, even from beyond the grave.

She might no longer be able to recall clearly what Bella looked like, but she could remember the smell, like malt, with a clinging pollen of sweet powder. She could not escape the smell, it was the scent of all young infants which seemed to linger in every place she went. In queues for taxis, amongst the clothes racks at Selfridges, at the cash till in Bally’s and in the corner of the coffee shop behind Marks & Spencer where they paused for breath during the effort of spending so much, so quickly. She would turn sharply as she caught a glimpse of a waddle that was Benjy’s or a tuft of red hair that was Bella, but always it was a deception, someone else. From the corner of an anxious mother’s eye all young children appeared the same.

The Stafford flowed over with English understatement;
it all but cascaded down the Regency wallpaper and echoed from graceful cornices. Not an air-conditioning unit in sight. The entrance hall was diminutive, some might say cramped, scarcely a hotel foyer, redolent of a private house which, indeed, it once had been.

‘Just like home,’ Daniel muttered.