A Parliamentary Affair (8 page)

Was that it? Was he bored with politics? No. Bored at the moment, then? He wriggled. It was not a word he used often. He had been bored witless at the bank in early days, but the job was a godsend and the money like manna from heaven. Once the promotions began he set to with a will. He had been bored at school because nothing happened – there were no stimuli, no challenges. His current feeling was somehow similar, though not as intense. A low-level sense of boredom and lack of challenge, then, but something exciting might reawaken that latent ambition.

There was a downside. If he were successful, life would change. At the moment he basked in a total lack of public recognition. Other strollers in the gardens were giving him hardly a glance. How would he cope with being well known? Would the children suffer? He and Caroline would have to take steps to protect them. Not that there was much chance of media stardom for the moment. He was not a great orator, not by a long chalk. His radio voice was flat and dull and he had no idea how to handle television – the cameras made him appear cold and rigid. None of that so-called ‘charm’ showed on the screen.

The list of advantages and disadvantages was not too devastating. Having reached what felt like a natural break, Dickson started walking back, brow furrowed in thought. In front of the Pankhurst statue and gazing up at it was a blonde woman in a blue suit. She did not notice his approach and stepped back as he drew near. A collision was inevitable; she yelped as he trod on her foot.

‘Oh! I am sorry!’ He began to apologise, and stopped dead. It was Elaine Stalker. She was rubbing her toes, shoe in hand. As she too realised the identity of her attacker, she hurriedly slipped the shoe back on and attempted to recover her dignity.

‘My, but you were in another world,’ She remarked. ‘Lucky it was you, Roger, or I might have clouted you one. Penny for them?’

He was nonplussed. ‘Pardon? Oh, penny for my thoughts. I was thinking about how to make myself famous for my bright, intelligent personality, just like you.’

She looked at him astonished, then warily. ‘You’re pulling my leg.’

He suddenly felt sheepish. ‘No, I was serious. Here am I, a grey, dull old whip. There must be lessons I can learn in how to sparkle as you do. Ah, what you could teach me, Elaine!’

He meant it only as gentle flirtation, a way of leaving his moodiness behind, but her reaction was uncertain. Dickson sighed; he was not handling this too well. She seemed ready to move out of the gardens with him in the direction of Members’ Entrance. They fell in step together.

‘I was thinking, that’s all. I’ve been a whip some time now. Much as I like it, I don’t want to spend the next ten years there. Nor, if I were being totally honest, do I want to spend ten years as a junior minister either.’ He was surprising himself, talking out loud like this. Those big hazel eyes were staring up at him with sympathy and concern. His youngest daughter had eyes like that, with a similar childlike openness and simplicity. Elaine’s gaze invited confidences. He hoped she was discreet.

‘I shouldn’t think you have much of a problem, Roger,’ she answered. There was a tartness in her tone which pulled him up short. ‘At least your feet are planted firmly on the ladder. Look at me – I haven’t started yet, and may never get the chance. Want to change places?’

Her remark restored the political geography with a clang, putting it reassuringly but dully back where it had been before he started the unaccustomed contemplation of his navel. He had been promoted, more than once, and should stop feeling sorry for himself. Other people saw him as a great success. He retreated into his official, cool, professional mode.

‘You should have no problem, Elaine, as long as you work at it. All you really need is patience. That’s what I should call you, eh, as a reminder – Patience? How about it?’

Elaine was both annoyed and puzzled. Her sharpness had made this interesting man shut up, just as he was beginning to unbend. She cursed her quickness, and softened her tone.

‘If you wish – or we could do a trade. Maybe, Roger, if I attempt to teach you how to “sparkle”, as you put it, you’ll teach me how to be patient.’

He laughed. ‘Now that sounds an attractive proposition, Mrs Stalker. Allow me to consider it further. And to apologise for treading on your foot. I haven’t hurt you, have I?’

She shook her head. Her toes were tingling but would survive.

‘I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.’

It should have been simply a good-natured remark, but it came out with some added significance. She was disconcerted, off balance. He was standing quietly in front of her; then he glanced at his watch.

‘I must go. Goodbye, Patience. Don’t forget.’

In the Commons cloakroom Elaine slowly took off her jacket and combed her hair in front of the mirror. Her toes twinged like a punishment. How she wished she had not halted those gentle musings by her roughness. At least she knew now that he was not such a cold fish.

And Roger Dickson, as he took the stairs to Members’ Lobby two at a time, was exulting at a sudden lightness of heart. For in the last few moments one more weakness had pushed itself forcibly to the fore – a weakness which might also have the potential to turn into a strength. Instead of dismay it left a glow, an excitement and buzz long forgotten. Naturally nothing would come of it. Nothing could come of it: he was not that sort of chap. Nevertheless the very whisper of the thought – the flirtation with fantasy presented a challenge, and a risk, and an answer to some of the problems of incipient boredom which had so scared him half an hour ago.

It was June, only three months since the election, which already seemed light years away. The last two weeks before the summer recess were a lazy time for MPs, who spent hours on the Terrace or queuing grumpily in the Thomas Cook travel office in the basement, arguing about plane tickets.

Roger Dickson and his fellow whips were busy. It was time to place friends and foes where it mattered. Select committees were set up in imitation of the powerful investigatory system of the US Congress, each shadowing the activities of a government department. Their political balance was giving rise to endless wrangling, for, with a tiny overall majority, in committee the government side had at best a nerve-jangling majority of one. Roger hoped that this Parliament would be remarkable for its lack of contentious issues, at least on the domestic front. He cursed those Members who craved seats on committees solely to make trouble. It needed only one misplaced pest for a minister or civil servant to be pilloried for hours, often on television.

A glance at his list of available Members threw up Andrew Muncastle’s name. The tall, fair man whose anxious face he still had difficulty recalling had written an apologetic note indicating willingness to serve on a Select Committee. There was still a vacancy on Environment. Both Muncastle and Elaine Stalker and a couple of more nondescript new Members were after it, but Muncastle had already made a speech on the subject. The chap was also a pre-programmed government supporter keen to earn brownie points. To clinch matters, Martin Clarke, whom Dickson owed a small favour after the defeat of a batty Euro-sceptic as chairman of the backbench Europe committee, had also mentioned Muncastle’s name.

The lovely Mrs Stalker was a different matter. He pondered her letter for a long time. Putting her on the committee instead of Muncastle would be taking a bit of a risk. It would have been a different matter had there been two vacancies, but a choice was required. She did not have the same aura of dull dependability as Muncastle, perhaps because she was a woman, and a disturbingly pretty one at that. Her progress was slower than it should be. She would have to be reminded to get on with her maiden speech and not leave it till Parliament returned in the autumn. Until it was done she could not participate in debates or Question Time and was in danger of trailing behind scores of others who had followed Muncastle over this first hurdle.

So Muncastle it was. He congratulated himself on a sound choice.

An opportunity to assist Mrs Stalker’s return to the fast lane soon presented itself. Year by year the Northern Ireland Act was renewed, usually at a quiet point in the summer. The debate covered the whole range of Ulster topics, not only security. A vote was not expected and few Members had put in to speak. Most, indeed, had paired and cleared off. Yet the subject matter was far from trivial.

Dickson found Elaine Stalker in the Commons library catching up on the week’s newspapers. Elaine was dressed in a light-blue linen suit, its straight skirt skimming her thighs as her weight shifted from one high-heeled foot to the other. He halted for a moment at the narrow doorway and watched her as she stood at the old-fashioned reading desk, her back to him. Even from here in the small warm room he could smell her perfume – Chanel, he guessed.

Roger had not forgotten the moment in the Embankment gardens, but on reflection had put it aside as too foolish for words, or too dangerous. Looking at her now he felt the excitement flooding
back, the buzz of something risky, different. Such a thing was not possible. A liaison between a whip and one of his own Members would be laughed out of court. It would diminish him forever, stop his progress dead. Nevertheless he could look, and daydream. And consider how he might keep the implied promise made then, that he would try to help her.

Her hand turning the pages was square, not a delicate woman’s hand but capable and workmanlike, fingernails short and practical, unvarnished. The golden hair was falling forward and she pushed it back from her face, revealing a big, pale pearl earring nestling deep in the soft mane, like a naked body in a tumbled bed. Her finger caressed the long pearl, gently, rubbing it up and down. The innocent movement made him catch his breath.

She lifted her head, turned around and looked straight at him, her friendly gaze catching his confused reflections. So Roger Dickson noticed her in that way too, did he? He hadn’t been the only one, of course. At least one colleague had made a quick pass and had been tactfully rebuffed. Elaine had not come to Westminster looking for a man. But it was flattering and, coming from a person as distinguished and important – and as attractive – as Roger Dickson, it was intriguing and not unwelcome.

‘What are you doing here, Elaine?’ he asked, and smiled at her. He kept his voice low, for chatter in the library was frowned on.

She explained ruefully she had not arranged a pair in time and had been frustrated by the scribbled notice ‘No More Pairs for Thursday’ pinned to the door of the whips’ office. Greg Shepherd, the whips’ clerk, keeper of those mysterious handwritten ledgers of approved pairs and absences, had shrugged sympathetically and shaken his head. He did not make the rules.

‘If you have to be here, make the most of it,’ suggested Dickson.

He told her about the Irish debate. It felt odd, talking lucidly to a person, making verbal contact with a brain and personality while secretly savouring her smell and minutely examining her physical being. Her skin looked fresh and alive, as if she enjoyed being a woman; she had acquired a modest tan sitting out on the Terrace each morning with Diane attending to her mail.

‘There’s a brief available. The debate is wide-ranging; almost anything you might say on Northern Ireland would be in order.’

Elaine was dubious, although her interest had been awakened by Marcus Carey’s recent enthusiasm. Dickson pushed her a little, offering a whiff of flattery. ‘The Secretary of State is dragging everybody in Ulster politics to talks on its future. We must show some support. The more backing he can get from capable people like you, Elaine, the better. And if you do I won’t forget it.’

It was not fair and he knew it. The debate was a formality. Its staged banalities would be widely reported in the province and ignored in the rest of the United Kingdom. On the other hand there would be no opportunities for big set-piece maiden speeches before the House recessed. Vaguely he felt he was letting her down. But for today he had his job to do, his duty to the front bench and the Chief Whip to deliver a well-managed debate. He was beginning to acknowledge to himself that he was drawn to her, not just as an arresting female or as an intelligent colleague, but as more than a mixture of both. In the autumn he could guide her career with a touch more finesse than he was showing now. A more hands-on approach, perhaps. Johnson’s bet floated into his mind. Again, as at the time, he reacted uncomfortably to such arrant chauvinism, the sheer injustice of judging potential largely by sex. He had entirely forgotten his own assessment of her for the place she craved on committee.

‘Okay, I’ll give it a try. At least it won’t be widely reported, which is a blessing, first time.’ Elaine felt almost relieved to be concentrating now on her maiden speech, even on an unfamiliar subject. She turned to leave with Roger. An objective observer glancing at the two might have noted a preoccupied expression on the woman’s face and a paternalistic, satisfied air to the man as he touched her on the arm and guided her towards the exit.

Deputy Speaker Dame Janet Fookes, regal and poker-faced, was in the Speaker’s Chair. Clutching the data Marcus had sent, Elaine waited quietly until she was acknowledged, bobbed her head respectfully and asked to be called for her maiden speech. Dame Janet pursed her lips: another new Member got at by the whips. Elaine could expect to be called about 6 p.m.

Once committed, Elaine could not shake off a feeling that speaking in that debate was a mistake. The place was empty. In itself that was not unusual. Most of the time the Commons Chamber was empty, a fact which always amazed visitors unable to contemplate that anything could be more alluring than speaking from the green benches. Most mainland Members, however, made a particular point of avoiding Northern Ireland business. It was too specialised, too tragic, too intractable to merit any of the soothing inanities which are most MPs’ stock in trade. Thus the province and its activities remained a closed book to Elaine’s colleagues, whose strongest reactions were helplessness at the outrages and a desire to be seen nowhere near such a debate.