This Honourable House (11 page)

Outside it was already dark, and the lights of St Thomas’s Hospital on the opposite bank blazed yellow across the wallowing blackness of the Thames. The waiter showed them to a table in the window and cast an appraising glance over Edward, calling him ‘sir’ with some obsequiousness. For some reason he could not fathom, Edward found the man’s manner unnerving. The Serjeant-
at-Arms
had behaved similarly. Were they all admirers of Diane, or all critics? He found the open examination hard to read. He laughed nervously as he unfolded the white linen napkin and picked up the menu. ‘So many arcane rules, aren’t there? I suppose one simply gets used to it. For instance, it must be handy not needing to be licensed.’

‘That’s nothing to do with this being the Mother of Parliaments, but because it’s a royal palace,’ Diane explained. ‘We’re here by grace and favour of the Queen. So it’s Crown property: the law doesn’t apply. More to the point, health-and-safety legislation doesn’t apply here either. The kitchens have recently been brought up to scratch but when I was a new MP the staff went on strike one hot summer, and quite understandably too, because of the conditions. They were expected to cook in the bowels of this dump in a temperature of over a hundred degrees.’

‘I don’t think it’s a dump –’ Edward began.

‘As a place to work, the Commons is appalling,’ Diane said bluntly. ‘Better for MPs, I grant
you, with the new Portcullis block over the road. That has to be one of the most hideous buildings in London, yet someone called Michael Hopkins is actually proud to be its architect. And its cost – over a million quid per office. But I don’t know about such niceties, I’m a Philistine. Value for money it ain’t.’

Edward laughed.

Diane was in full flow: ‘When I wanted my tiny office redecorated because it was filthy – the previous occupant used to chuck cups of coffee over the walls at random, some kind of budding performance artist he was – the Serjeant told me it was impossible. So I offered to do it myself, with the press taking photos. The
Globe
was quite keen. It was painted that weekend like a shot, and the curtains cleaned. Bingo. Nowhere else would you have to put up with such nonsense.’

The menu was contained in a gold-tasselled green folder with a sketch of Big Ben, complete with the ubiquitous portcullis. Simple fare, but very British, Edward noted: celery soup, roast pork with apple compote followed by apricot slice or crème brûlée, though also available for the less carnivorous was an organic vine-ripened tomato and basil omelette or crisp-baked ‘moneybag’ of spicy spinach and dried fruits. Diane grinned. ‘Moneybag indeed. There was a fuss some years ago about putting the entire menu into English, but they got their knickers in a twist. I mean, what’s the English for tagliatelle? And who’d eat “burnt cream” if it was offered? So that’s a compromise. You’ll get better food in restaurants like Greens or Rules, but this is far cheaper. Subsidised by the taxpayer. Eat and enjoy.’

Edward selected the braised beef olives with cabbage, Diane the grilled chicken with black bean and mango salsa; they settled on a glass of house wine each rather than a bottle.

‘You mentioned the
Globe
,’ Edward ventured as the starters arrived. ‘Didn’t I hear you were suing them? How are you getting on?’

‘Don’t talk to me about the
Globe
,’ Diane growled, then ignored her own advice and continued, ‘There are rags. And there are
rags
. The
Globe
is the worst. They’re not interested in reporting facts or intelligent commentary, and they wouldn’t recognise “investigative journalism” if it slapped them in the face. Though given that we’re the government now, that’s probably in our favour. It’d be us they were investigating, if they could be bothered, not the other lot.’

She tucked into her soup with gusto and evident appetite as Edward passed the salt and listened politely. He had already guessed that when Diane was in such a mood all she needed was to be prompted occasionally. He was happy to oblige; it gave him a chance to look at her, and to reflect to his own surprise on her clear skin and bright eyes whose expression and animation were fascinating.

‘A newspaper like that,’ Diane said, ‘is therefore incapable of contributing to our free society. Instead they target figures in the public eye in an attempt to increase sales. Which is a hiding to nothing, as shown by their falling circulation. The printed press are on the way out: most punters get their information from the broadcast media who are much fairer. But for the
Globe
, facts don’t matter – indeed, are hostile to their cause. We’re not talking Fleet Street at its finest here, only innuendo and nastiness. Unfortunately, they set the agenda in a way the TV news doesn’t. Once you’re slagged off, it’s hard to retrieve a damaged reputation. Mud sticks.’

Her companion murmured agreement. Diane thumped the table and made the plates jump. Apparently she did not need alcohol to get excited. ‘I get called “controversial and colourful” whenever I open my mouth. It grates, especially when on another page the leader column is whingeing on about how faceless and bland today’s politicians are. Anybody with any sense these days’d run a mile before embarking on a political career. All that scrutiny, of our finances, our friends, our secrets, even where we spend our holidays and who with; we never,
ever
get the benefit of the doubt. Behaviour that in the outside world would be regarded as perfectly normal, like forgetting to pay your bills or getting drunk with your mates, is condemned as inherently evil. Evil? What
rubbish. But trash is easier to report than in-depth stuff. The day after the Queen’s Speech there was no coverage of its contents, but loads on the bloody hats. Drives me mental.’

‘You could ignore the papers. They haven’t said anything about you that any of your friends would believe,’ Edward protested mildly. The main courses arrived. He was on his second glass of wine and he felt slightly lightheaded. ‘Are you going ahead with the libel case? Those comments you quoted, if I may say so as a former lawyer, are clearly defamatory.’

‘What hurt most was the hint that I slept around and that somehow this disqualified me from high office.’ Diane had dropped her voice. ‘If that were so then centuries of statesmen from Palmerston to Lloyd George would have been condemned. Plus half of every Cabinet since the Second World War. But they’re blokes, so they’re openly admired as dirty dogs. It does them no harm whatsoever. When it comes to a woman, double standards rule.’ Edward felt a little out of his depth. Diane had not denied the ‘facts’. It seemed to be the implications she resented. ‘I’m not sure that would be the best line of attack in court,’ he said diplomatically.

‘True.’ Diane dissected her chicken with energy. ‘But I resent having to tailor my life to their demands. It’s not as if the journos themselves are such saints. That Jim Betts is a slob. Some years ago it was rumoured he was an inch away from a rape case involving some kid who worked here. His boss Pansy’s an active campaigner for the legalisation of dope. They hype up every dolly bird who’s got a bit-part in a soap, then berate politicians for being dull and lifeless. But what we do is vital if sometimes mundane, and we don’t need to be a dizzy blonde and size ten to do it.’

The waiters were in a corner, whispering, one eyeing Edward with unfeigned curiosity. He was uncomfortable again, his attention diverted from Diane’s tirade. She noted his distraction, glanced at the waiters with an amused snort and wiped her mouth with a napkin. ‘You should watch it, Edward. Next thing, they’ll be accusing you of shagging me.’

‘Oh, I don’t think that’s very likely,’ Edward stuttered.

‘You don’t?’ Diane teased playfully. ‘My staff often get that kind of once-over, and in the past there’s been every reason.’

Edward wondered, with a sense of panic, if she was flirting with him. Against that impish flicker of a naughty child, that vivacious, raunchy expression that had been caught on the BBC’s
Question Time
, he found himself without defences.

Diane relented. ‘Well, maybe you’re right. I have taken a personal vow of abstinence. No more hanky-panky, not while I’m in the public eye. Unfair as it may be, I can’t go round suing the
Globe
and still having it off with every handsome young man who crosses my path. Not when a
Globe
photographer might be lurking behind the bushes.’

The wine glasses were empty; a waiter hovered hopefully. Diane paused. ‘I’ve had enough,’ she said. ‘Got two boxes still to do tonight. Coffee?’

‘I can help you if you’d like,’ Edward offered. ‘I wasn’t planning to dash off.’

‘Yeah, why not?’ Diane called for the bill. Suddenly she leaned forward. Her cheeks were a little flushed, her eyes wide. ‘What you should accept, since you work for me, is that I really do care passionately about the causes I take up. I hope you do too. That’s why you seemed like the right guy at the interview. They’re not optional, and often when I got started they were unpopular or sneered at. Teenagers needing abortions, women who get knocked about by violent partners, or raped, and nobody takes any action: what men are likely to pursue issues like that? A few brave ones back me up, but they wouldn’t dream of striding out in front. Foxes and wildlife have more supporters than desperate inner-city women in trouble, believe me. And most of my detractors are men, not women.’

The thought occurred to Edward that life was seldom that simple; perhaps Diane did others a disservice by painting everything in black and white. But perhaps it was also an inner certainty that drove her on. ‘What cannot be denied,’ he said out loud, conscious that he sounded a tad pompous, ‘is that you have serious achievements to point to. Your detractors have nothing.’

‘Thank you for that.’ Diane seemed pleased. ‘I admire you, Edward. You’re going to be a valuable member of the team. Tell you what, let’s go back to my flat to finish off this paperwork. My coffee’s not bad. I promise I won’t lay a finger on you – meant what I said about that self-denying ordinance. Come on.’

It was a minute before midnight. The tall man hung up his mackintosh, adjusted his half-moon spectacles to the accustomed point on his nose and nodded at the young woman on the phone. She acknowledged his presence silently but her attention was focused on her conversation; or, rather, she was listening intently, making occasional notes on a pad and murmuring in an encouraging tone.

The man slid the log book from under her arm and glanced at it. Nobody familiar had called that evening so far, but it had not been a quiet night. As the days shortened and Christmas loomed, for many troubled people the fears and loneliness multiplied. The switchboard would get busier. That was why he chose the shift after midnight before his own rostered day off work. In those grim hours he would be totally occupied.

He made mugs of instant coffee for himself and the girl, then settled at the next desk. He turned the page of the log book, ruled vertical lines and wrote the date and his code name. Then he waited for the phone to ring.

‘Hello. Samaritans.’

For several seconds all he could hear was an almost inaudible sniffle at the other end of the line. That was nothing unusual. He noted the time and that it was a woman. She seemed to be talking rapidly to herself. As he said, in a neutral tone, ‘Take as long as you need. No hurry,’ he guessed at her age. Forties, maybe. This would not be a brief conversation. Women talked more than men and accounted for far more than their proportionate share of calls. They were more likely to carry out their threats and attempt suicide. On the other hand, men were more determined, and far more likely to succeed. Young men especially.

The woman’s sniffs abated and he could hear her blowing her nose. ‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry,’ she muttered. Even on the phone to a complete stranger, the man reflected, callers could be theatrical. Perhaps that was the point: they could be demonstrative in a dialogue with someone unseen,
non-existent
almost, but were utterly tongue-tied or in denial when it came to unburdening themselves to a friend or relative. It stood to reason: if they had someone they loved to pour it all out to, why would anyone ring?

‘I’m here,’ he said patiently. ‘Do you feel able to talk now?’

The woman gulped then was silent. That, too, was not unusual. Many calls were entirely silent. Though it was tricky to establish or confirm anything, it was believed that those who rang but could not bring themselves to speak were mainly first-timers. People sometimes needed simply to be reassured that a kindly listener was on tap. Only later, when the painful step of finding the number, dialling and hearing another voice had become less strange, even a habit, might words be coaxed out of them. Though it was not his job to persuade anyone to do anything. Nor to dissuade them, come to that.

‘I’m so unhappy,’ she started. ‘It’s my own fault, I realise that. I feel like my head’s bursting. And, worst of all, I’m such a fool.’

She was trying to sound middle class but a northern accent intruded quite strongly as her voice rose at the tail-end of sentences. He could hear her gulping and hiccupping. He waited. From the corner of his eye he could see his young co-worker finish her call, enter a few scribbled remarks in her log book then sign off with a flourish. She pulled on her coat with a weary shrug and tiptoed out of the door.

The caller was settling into a steady stream of self-loathing. Like most of their clients her
self-esteem
was virtually non-existent. With some individuals who had committed crimes or damaged those who loved them, the flagellation was justified. Others had no cause to be unhappy with themselves. It made no difference. The clinically depressed did not have to be in pain to feel pain. This woman, however, appeared pretty normal, almost chatty now. Her listener found himself
doodling on an envelope and with an effort made himself concentrate.

‘They say I’m such an idiot. They’re right. I am.’

‘Why should you think that?’ the man murmured. If she wanted to get it off her chest, he was here for her.

‘Oh, loads of reasons. Because I let him go, mainly. It was my fault: he wanted babies and I couldn’t have them. Oh, he said not to worry but you could sense he reckoned I wasn’t a proper wife. He used to get cross at my dolls. Said those were for little girls, not grown women. But it was hard.’

She was calmer now. ‘I should have gone to college. If I’d had an education I would have made something of myself. Been a teacher, perhaps. I could have been a headmistress with my own primary school somewhere out in the country. I certainly wouldn’t have married him. My mum never thought he was good enough.’ She stopped, as if mulling over old memories.

He prompted, ‘You didn’t agree?’

‘No. He was special. A policeman, looked smashing in his uniform, I can see it now. Pity he didn’t stay in the force. He’d have been a better man.’

The Samaritan went through a mental checklist. Her speech wasn’t slurred and she had not alluded to any form of self-harm. Nor any other violence. Though even if he feared she had taken tablets, he could not call the police or an ambulance. That was not allowed. He could try to persuade her to do so, but he could not do it for her. He was there to listen, not to interfere.

The woman’s voice had become fiercer. ‘What really gets me,’ she was saying, ‘is that they’re spot on when they laugh at me. I am a pathetic creature, at the moment. And I’ve never been like this before. I wonder if I’m having some sort of breakdown. Beyond my control. The moment anyone talks to me, I fall to pieces. If they’re trying to be kind I want to get hysterical and throw things. The flat’s a pigsty – and I used to be so house-proud. A chap came to the place not long ago, a senior inspector, and you could see his nose wrinkling at the state of it. What am I to do?’

Her listener conquered the urge to suggest she clean up. That was not in the rule book. On the other hand, her awareness of the problem was the best means of conquering it. Instead he asked gently whether she had anyone else she could speak to.

‘I used to have lots of friends,’ the woman whispered. ‘That was when I was the wife of a big man, a VIP. Most of the sods vanished, pronto. I think he’s persuaded them to send me to Coventry. I get hate mail from him, awful stuff. I’m sure it’s from him, who else could it be? So now no one comes near me, except that lovely Mr Maxwell. Well, at least he’ll speak to me on the phone. God, I’m a mess. And I’m so ashamed.’

‘Maybe there’s nothing much to be ashamed of,’ he offered. This seemed to give her pause for thought. A big sigh came down the phone.

‘Yes, you could have a point,’ she answered. ‘I never used to be that stupid. I couldn’t have coped with him and the life we led, always in the public eye and that, if I’d been such a terrible failure. I must have done something right all those years. I just wish I didn’t feel so useless. And it’s so bloody difficult to pull yourself together, you know? I need to take the first step. Easier said than done.’

There was another pause but he could hear her breathing regularly and more calmly. The first step was to ring Samaritans, in many cases, and she had done that.

‘My name’s Gail,’ she said suddenly. He moved to stop her. ‘We don’t need to know.’ He wondered, as he often did, whether he might be acquainted with his caller. From the information given, it was a distinct possibility. Maybe this was how she wanted it. He reflected that Gail, if that was indeed her name, was a good woman at heart.

She confirmed his opinion by asking shyly what his name was. ‘Peter,’ he answered, giving his code. ‘Peter,’ she repeated slowly. ‘That’s nice. Thank you for letting me talk to you. I hope I wasn’t a nuisance.’ Without any hurry, as he guessed she would, she ended the call. And he knew that
she would not need to call again.

He removed his spectacles and pinched the bony part of his nose. Before he could replace them the phone rang again.

‘Hello. Samaritans.’

‘Hello?’ It was a man’s voice, young and hesitant. ‘Hello. Samaritans. Can I help you?’

Silence, then a clearing of the throat. ‘Is that Peter? Can I speak to  Peter?’

The tall man considered. It was not unknown for a caller to refuse to speak unless it was to a familiar voice. On the other hand, personal contact and friendship was abjured; anonymity was at the heart of the matter, and of the organisation’s success over the decades. The young man might deliberately have called at this hour, assuming Peter had a preference for the dark of the night. As indeed he had.

It could do no harm. ‘Yes, this is Peter.’

The young man laughed. The tone was educated, the jollity a little forced. ‘Oh, splendid. I’ve spoken to you before, ages ago. When I was suicidal. I’m not any more, I should hasten to add. In fact, I’ve put those terrible days behind me. Changed my job, got a terrific new position that suits me perfectly. In the House of Commons.’

Peter stiffened. He was uncomfortably aware that if he dared he would recognise the voice, though it was not that easy to place: not a prominent person, anyway, or someone with whom he had spent a great deal of time. The question would irritate him until he had figured it out, although that was totally against his training. He ought to terminate the call at once. But the young man was prattling on apparently quite happily so that it was difficult to interrupt.

‘It’s wonderful. I don’t understand why I didn’t get a grip earlier. Now my days are crammed, full of purpose. There’s a reason for getting up in the morning, getting shaved and dressed and going out. Do you understand what I’m saving?’

‘I do,’ the Samaritan said calmly. ‘I am glad to hear everything’s going so well.’

‘You see,’ the young man continued more soberly, ‘I wanted to thank you. When I was working as a lawyer, that was the last couple of times I phoned, Peter, I suspected I might be going mad. Stark raving crazy. Well, I was. I landed in hospital more than once. Sectioned under the Mental Health Acts. Not that I was going to hurt anybody else, but for my own safety. But you and your colleagues helped me through it, and persuaded me there was a reason to go on living and that I should persevere.’ His listener was quite sure that he had attempted no such thing, but if it pleased the caller to believe the fiction then he would not contradict. Many depressions cured themselves, if only temporarily. Without treatment or immense self-discipline they could recur. There was a pause. To get the young man talking again, and trying to ignore the extent to which he was overstepping the mark, Peter said gravely, ‘The new job. It interests you more than the previous one, I take it?’

‘Oh, it does.’ The enthusiasm was infectious and unfeigned. ‘I’m working for a wonderful woman, a senior MP. She has the most marvellous attitude to politics and she has taken me under her wing. Sorry if I sound a bit silly about her, but I’ve had a few drinks tonight. I needed to – to summon up the courage to ring to say thank you. I expected you’d be on duty about now.’

We change the rotas from time to time, his listener thought drily, but refrained from comment. With so many callers it was often impossible to remember the details of one in particular; without pulling out the old logs Peter could not be sure whether he had spoken with this man before. At least, not on the helpline phone. Face to face? Maybe. ‘It’s nice to leave the bad experiences behind,’ he murmured.

‘It is, it is.’ The young man sighed. ‘But I dunno, when I enthuse about her to other people, they don’t quite share my view. They say she’s aggressive, and belligerent, and the media can be ghastly about her. It’s so unfair. Females in politics, they have to put up with such a horrible press. Double standards. Far worse than men.’

Peter made a sympathetic noise. The caller’s identity was still unclear but the Samaritan was now fairly certain who the starry employer might be. Given the dearth of top women in the Commons, that bit was easy He resolved to finish the call as tactfully and adroitly as possible.

He could hear a gurgle; the young man had fortified himself already with alcohol and he was evidently repeating the exercise. ‘And was there anything in particular that you wanted to mention tonight? If not …’ Peter said hopefully.

‘No, nothing much. Only to tell you that I am so happy. Life has taken a miraculous turn for the better. I keep pinching myself. Diane is so wonderful – I think about her the whole time. She keeps popping up in my dreams, night and morning, would you believe? My saviour. I don’t show it in the office, of course. There, I’m the soul of discretion. Behave beautifully.’

‘Absolutely …’ Peter murmured, and held the handset away from his ear. But he could not fail to catch the next few excited words.

‘Wait, don’t go. I simply have to say it to someone. She’s twenty years older than I am but it’s as if there’s no age gap. The other way round. She makes me feel mature and valuable and important. I even flirt with her a bit and she laughs, she likes it. What a woman! There’s nothing in it, can’t be. But I swear I may be falling in love with her.’

‘Nah,’ said Betts. ‘I don’t go in for that sort of thing.’ Melvyn passed him the bottle. They had retired to the deputy press officer’s flat in Victoria after a West End first night, once it was obvious that few of the promised starlets had turned up, and that those who had were already paired. The bottle of House of Commons whisky was already half empty though neither had bothered to find a glass.

‘Wise up! Get a life! It’s harmless,’ Melvyn urged. ‘And you get some crazy birds on the line. I’ll put the speakerphone on, then you can hear. And join in, if you like.’

‘Your phone bill,’ Betts muttered, ‘must be bloody astronomical.’

Melvyn shrugged with a grin. ‘What the hell? I don’t pay it, do I?’

The journalist cast a sly glance at his host. ‘Even so, these chat lines charge a pound a minute or more. Don’t your superiors check?’

‘Gotta be joking,’ Melvyn said. ‘Too much else to do, honestly. They’re supposed to be running the country. They’re not bothered how much of a bill I run up at home. ’S long as it’s within reason.’

‘What does that mean?’