A Parliamentary Affair (3 page)

Something jarred on Elaine. She was listening carefully, half leaning on Quin, and heard him snort. What were Sir Michael and Sir Thomas saying?

‘The office of Speaker, once secured, is all-powerful in this Chamber. Therefore, proposing who shall be the next Speaker is a perilous enterprise. I am all too well aware that if I get this wrong I may never catch the Speaker’s eye again.’

That seemed a bit precious. Was that the approved style?

‘The office of Speaker is the loneliest job in Parliament. Its holder is required to sacrifice that camaraderie which means so much to the rest of us. My Right Honourable Friend whom I am proposing today is steeped in the traditions of this place. He would bring dignity, wit and erudition to the exercise of the office and the stature to ensure firm handling of our often stormy debates…’

No, it wasn’t that which jarred. These words were fine. She was listening intently. A hand on her waist squeezed gently, briefly. She looked around in annoyance again, then relaxed. It was Roger Dickson. His sharp eyes had observed her defending herself from the ruffian behind. Without any show or fuss, using whip’s authority, he had moved the offender out of the way. Now he lounged unconcernedly, but close enough to protect her.

Sir Thomas was seconding the motion. ‘My Right Honourable Friend would be impartial between the parties. He would make an admirable and excellent Speaker. Without wishing to sound impertinent, my Right Honourable Friend also looks the part. Indeed he is famous for his bushy eyebrows. His qualities will stand him in good stead.’

Looks the part? What does that mean? What is a Speaker supposed to look like? Elaine took a long, hard look at the large, embarrassed, kindly man whose name was being put forward and who in a moment would be called to indicate his assent to nomination. Of course he looks the part. He’s a bloke.

She turned her head and found her face a few inches from Roger’s. He smelled faintly of Imperial Leather soap and wore no aftershave.

Suddenly she was angry. Looked the part indeed. Since when were eyebrows a qualification for anything? Her vote had been undecided up to that point. If Boothroyd impressed, however, Elaine would go into the lobby with Labour and hang the consequences.

Quin was snorting again as the Tory candidate rose to his feet.

‘I am grateful to my Honourable Friends who have proposed and seconded me in terms much more generous than I warrant. Confronted with such a litany of perfection, I shall essay, but not achieve, the standard of humility set by King Lobengula of the Matabele, whose first loyal address to Queen Victoria began with the words, “We who are but as the lice on the edge of Your Majesty’s blanket…’”
The House enjoyed that. The contest was far from over.

‘My father entered Parliament when I was four years of age; he sat in both Houses. Both my parents sat in the Upper House. My first visit here was at the age of nine. My ancestor was Member for the City of London, which is part of my constituency, and was Speaker also. He lasted five weeks in the summer of 1554 in the reign of Bloody Mary before deciding that discretion was the better part of valour… A candidate must also be confident that his spouse understands what will be involved in the roles that both will need to play. My wife has experienced the life of a minister’s wife and has a willing understanding of the role that falls to a Speaker’s wife.’

Quin and Stalker, standing shoulder to shoulder, mused on different aspects. ‘All sounds like very good reasons for not electing him,’ the socialist muttered. ‘We don’t want to encourage the impression that there are hereditary rights to the highest offices in the land.’

Elaine thought about the bewildered little boy the nominee must once have been. Only four years old when his parent became an MP. No one to say: You should not leave your child; he is too young. A wonderful wife who knows the role. Miss Boothroyd lacks this useful little extra. How nice it would be to have such a wife. Most of these men here had these priceless assets; she wondered if they were appreciated.

Roger Dickson leaned forward. It was comforting but also strangely exciting, having him close behind her like this. ‘Now for some fun – it’s Betty’s turn to be nominated.’

The Right Honourable John Biffen, Tory, and the Honourable Mrs Dunwoody, Labour, championed their preference.

Then a handsome woman of sixty-two in a dark-red silk dress rose to her feet. On her appointment as Deputy Speaker five years before, Miss Boothroyd had been asked by a cheeky Member, recalling her theatrical background, how she should be addressed. ‘Call me Madam’ was the acid rejoinder. At the Bar of the House, Members shushed and nudged each other.

‘I have been a Member for nearly twenty years. For me, the House of Commons has never been just a career: it is my life. I have never sought, and I have never expected to occupy, one of the great offices of government. I say to you, elect me for what I am, not for what I was born.’

Again Quin and Stalker reacted differently. The socialist whispered once again, ‘Not for what I was born.’ Not from birth, Betty. No birthright. Nothing taken for granted. No childhood spent in the gallery watching Daddy; her teenage years were spent as a Tiller girl, a high-kicking dancer on the West End stage, working in her spare time for the League of Labour Youth.

Elaine noted sadly a life devoted to politics – never marrying, no children. Was it really so impossible to be a woman MP and yet like millions of other women have a husband and children too? What had she let herself in for? Was she expecting too much of herself, and, if so, what was most at risk of failure – her career or her married life?

It was time: the division was called on Miss Boothroyd. Talking noisily and thrilled at their own importance, MPs streamed towards their chosen voting lobby as the bells rang. Roger was heading towards the ‘Noes’. Elaine did not hesitate. Boldly she turned the other way. Looks, indeed. Bushy eyebrows, no less. Because she’s a woman. My life. Not for what I was born.

It was an exhilarating relief to find she was not alone. Instead more than seventy Tories traipsed through the ‘Ayes’ doors, joining colleagues from all the other parties.

By 372 votes to 238, the Commons elected as their 155th Speaker the first woman in all its 700 years’ existence.

As the result was announced a huge roar went up. All the MPs, including the government, joined in a spontaneous and unprecedented standing ovation. Roger Dickson was on his feet, clapping and cheering lustily, looking pleased his side had lost. Reasserting tradition, the Speaker-elect allowed herself to be dragged laughing and feigning reluctance to the Chair, for seven of her predecessors had lost their heads opposing tyrannical monarchs and the job was still no picnic.

Smoothly, the system glided into action and the real powers of the land asserted themselves. The first speech of congratulations was made by the Prime Minister, who had not voted. Backbenchers had had their moment of glory and attention; order was now restored. Prime-time television switched quickly from the glories of the Commons to
Neighbours
.

Elaine felt strangely empty as she turned away.

In the corridor outside the tea room Andrew was stopped by a great slap on the back which nearly knocked him flying. He returned a half-hearted greeting. Martin Clarke had been a prefect at Harrow
School and Andrew his fag. In those days the little boy had been terrified of a clip around the ear if Clarke’s shoes were not polished or the toast was burnt, but it reassured him now to be able to look down on his senior’s sandy pate and note a growing bald patch.

‘Well, I must say it’s jolly good to see you,’ Clarke began.

Andrew was less sure, but he relaxed and nodded. Clarke had entered Parliament five years ago and was a wealthy, cheerful lightweight.

‘I have a proposition for you, Andrew old chap. Now you know that a lot of what goes on in Westminster doesn’t go on in the Chamber at all, don’t you? The real negotiations take place upstairs, or round the dinner table, in more salubrious surroundings altogether. Anyway, a group of us like to meet regularly. Support each other in debates, backbench committees, that sort of thing. We call ourselves the “Snakes and Ladders” – because of the ups and downs of political life, geddit? Dinner at the Beefsteak Club most Monday nights – good traditional nosh. Occasionally we’ll invite a senior face to join us, all very private but useful. About thirty of us. You interested?’

‘I’m not a member there. Would that be a problem?’

‘No, no. We’ll put you up for membership but it’s not necessary. Oh, and females banned, so the talk is serious. Next Monday at seven thirty? If there’s a vote at ten we arrange plenty of cabs to get us back, so we can drink too. I think you’ll fit in very well. Welcome to the club, Muncastle. Good to have you on board.’

Mike Stalker was on the phone from New York. ‘How did it go? We were watching it here on CNN. I looked for you but there was such a crowd. How does it feel now you’ve voted for the first time?’

‘Oh, I can’t tell you. It’s all so big and noisy and pushy and competitive – not what I expected, yet a hell of a lot more wonderful. Physically it’s a real surprise – everything is smaller, more cramped, more crowded than it looks on screen. There is always somebody breathing down your neck. And, Mike, the working conditions are awful, a real letdown. The office I’ve been offered has hardly room to swing a cat, but it was made clear I was damn lucky to get one at all so early. If I want a bigger one I’ll have to share. Worse than being at school.’

Across the ocean Michael Stalker, senior pilot for British Airways, tucked into a giant
room-service
steak. ‘Talking of school, how is Karen? You heard from her?… The new term seems to have got off to a good start. Give her my love. Must go now. See you … when? … I have another trip to Lagos at the weekend… A week on Friday, then. Take care. Lots of love.’

Mike’s transatlantic phone calls always sounded like rapidly written postcards or staccato conversations with air traffic control. Elaine yearned suddenly for a mature, intricate conversation with him. It was a pity he was not really interested in politics, though his loving indulgence towards her made up for lack of involvement. Most husbands would not have put up with her long absences and total preoccupation with work. My life. She picked up the phone again and dialled Karen’s boarding school.

Miss Karen Stalker, aged almost fourteen, unwound her legs from the common room’s battered sofa, sauntered into the corridor and picked up the dangling receiver. She pretended nonchalance but in reality she was immensely proud and old enough to realise the extraordinary barriers her mother had leapt. Mum had explained the fascination of Parliament and why it was not enough, nowhere near enough, to stay at home as a councillor or a magistrate or chairman of the school governors.

Karen had been sour, and a little jealous. ‘You’ll have to do what the whips tell you. We’ve been looking at political parties in general studies at school. I had to write an essay on whether they work against democracy. I reckoned the answer’s yes.’

It would have been more of a blow if her brainy, mixed-up daughter had been interested only in Slash, Megadeath and The Cure. If she was a bit of a rebel, a little critical and unwilling to take advice, those were modest faults she shared with her mother.

After exams Karen would be free for a few days. The school required her to find something useful to do which could be entered on her record as ‘work experience’. Without a second thought Elaine arranged a Commons pass so that the girl could come and work for her. It was to be a fateful arrangement.

The best club in London was back in business. The Members’ Dining Room, one of the grandest rooms in the dowdier Commons end of the Palace of Westminster, was beginning to fill up. Conservative Members seated themselves at small tables near the entrance under portraits of Pitt, Walpole and Speaker Onslow; Liberal Democrats disported around a single oval table in the centre, dwarfed by the cold buffet; Labour dominated the far end of the room, under the beady eyes of Gladstone and Disraeli. A few privileged servants of the House – the Serjeant-at-Arms in black
knee-breeches
and silver-buckled pumps, the Clerk bewhiskered, but without his powdered wig – were also sliding in, like family retainers permitted by virtue of age and distinction to eat near but not with the masters. The atmosphere, as always on a busy night with a three-line whip, was noisy, jovial, macho.

Most of the females in the room were black-skirted waitresses, scurrying around with plates of lentil soup and stuffed eggs, strands of hair escaping across damp brows. Elaine hesitated inside the polished oak doors leading from Lower Waiting Hall. Despite the fact that she was never timid about walking into a pub on her own, it was not easy simply to saunter in.

A hand on her arm made her jump. Sir Nigel Boswood’s kindly face smiled down at her.

‘This your first time here?’

She nodded, a trifle miserably. None of the faces was familiar, except from television. The thought of approaching such exotic strangers and perhaps being rebuffed left her unexpectedly shy. Obviously there were rules and expectations about the seating plan – but what? Her companion seemed to sense her discomfort.

‘Well: I’m Nigel Boswood, and I would be honoured if you would join me. You’re Elaine Stalker, aren’t you? Congratulations on winning, and welcome to the madhouse. We don’t save seats – not good form; we go to the nearest vacant, or start a new foursome. I suggest we do just that.’ He put a guiding hand on her elbow and led her to an empty table. As he did so Andrew Muncastle walked in, also hesitating on the threshold, but using his height to search for acquaintances. Boswood caught his eye and waved him over. One new boy or two, it was evidently all the same to him. The table was completed as Roger Dickson paused at the spare chair and asked if he might join them. Dickson was likely to be the government whip for the Department of the Environment in the new session and would be working closely with Boswood. The two established Members exchanged easy eye contact and a light smile, nothing too forceful, yet the authoritative style common to both announced clearly that these were important persons and to be treated with due deference.

A waiter hovered as Boswood examined the new menu and wine list.

‘At last, my dears, we are repairing the ravages of Mr Maxwell,’ Sir Nigel announced grandly. ‘Respectable wines have finally reappeared. Do you know what that man did, may he rot in hell?’

Robert Maxwell had once been an MP and chairman of the Commons catering committee. Elaine tried the eye contact plus smile trick and was amused as Boswood winked back.

‘Let me explain. Inevitably this place runs at a loss. Cap’n Bob cured the deficit all right, by the simple expedient of selling off virtually the entire wine cellar at knock-down prices – mostly to himself and his friends. He then resold what he didn’t drink, and made quite a killing.’

Dead men can’t sue. Elaine suppressed a giggle. ‘But now, Sir Nigel, all is well?’

‘Ah, yes.’

Nigel enjoyed talking to women and they warmed naturally to him, sensing in his courtesy that he sought nothing but friendship, and that he had no secret agenda. Minds and personalities mattered more to Boswood than gender or appearances. When he could choose, he had no truck with masculine games, be it with women or with men. Now, relief at winning the election was mingled
with regret that this would probably be his last Parliament, the last time he could show off to a new intake.

‘Indeed. The financial problems were resolved by putting the catering staff on the main payroll. All we have to pay for is the food. So we’re in surplus at last, my dears!’

Elaine wryly sipped a slimline tonic. It had not occurred to her, tramping in the rain around South Warmingshire, that checking out a wine guide might have been worthwhile preparation for entering Westminster.

‘It’s very hard to explain to constituents why we should have subsidised canteens,’ Andrew Muncastle murmured. He had been listening, and disapproving. He preferred a pint of bitter and was unhappy at the conspiratorial way Sir Nigel was talking.

‘Then don’t try.’ Roger Dickson sensed the man’s unease. This chap would not be the first to start his career as an uninformed puritan. Reality usually intervened before long.

‘They won’t moan if you give them value for money, dear boy,’ Boswood boomed. ‘Just bear in mind that you would be substantially better paid in this year of grace as the manager of the Virgin Music megastore in Oxford Street. The nation has its priorities.’

His remark produced rueful guffaws and lightened the atmosphere. Andrew unbent a little, and began to tell a self-effacing tale of canvassing in his constituency. As polite attention turned to him, Elaine examined the menu. It was all in English, was indeed entitled ‘Bill of Fare’; the
carte
at the Mother of Parliaments should not be in French, however much it irritated the chef. She relished the choices: grilled grey mullet with lemon and oregano, or braised quail on a bed of red cabbage with raspberry vinegar, or curry with basmati rice, or roast pork with apricot stuffing, all for £4 each. Swordfish steak with garlic and tomato concassé sauce came for £8.45, breast of guinea fowl with cranberries and brandy at £6. A sweet or cheese could be had for 85p, coffee to follow was only 20p. The linen was crisp and white, the cutlery only slightly smeared, the gold-crested crockery distinguished, the service slapdash but friendly. Value for money. No wonder the place was full.

‘If you two are looking for advice, I would suggest you dine in here a couple of times a week, and certainly don’t go a week without,’ Dickson suggested as the starters arrived. Both he and Elaine had chosen duck terrine; Andrew Muncastle was sipping consommé, while Boswood tucked into a shellfish soup with yoghurt and brandy. The chef was certainly liberal with the brandy bottle. ‘There are key places where you’ll get all the gossip: here; the tea room; the Smoking Room next door, to some extent. The bars downstairs are always crowded. Avoid Annie’s Bar unless you want to be a “Rentaquote” – that’s the hang-out of press-gallery journalists. If you’re tempted to say something to them it’s safer to pick up a private phone. If your remarks are likely to be hostile to the government I’d rather you say them to me instead. The Strangers’ Bar, down by the kiosk, is dubbed “the Kremlin” since the clientele are mainly old-time northern socialists. It’s the only spot in the whole Palace with decent beer – casks of Federation Bitter are trundled down from Newcastle upon Tyne every week. They’re a matey lot provided you don’t mind a smoky masculine atmosphere.’

Dickson made the place sound more congenial, less mysterious. Elaine made a mental note to give the Kremlin a miss. He was watching her, head on one side, trying to assess her reactions. The conversation was evidently all part of an elaborate quadrille. She wished someone would tell her the rules.

She asked, ‘That takes care of the evenings. What about lunchtime? If I accept all the invitations to lunch I’m receiving I shall be enormous in no time.’

‘No such thing as a free lunch.’ Dickson’s plate was deftly removed and replaced with a generous helping of pork. Elaine busied herself with a fillet steak and salad. Muncastle, as if scared of the pleasures of the table, chose cold meat from the buffet. Alongside the other, richer food the slices looked dry and forlorn. Dickson continued, gravely: ‘Beware of organisations which ply you with smoked salmon, then tell you they’re skint and need your help to lobby for more taxpayers’ money.’

Talk languished as the diners concentrated on the meal. At last Boswood dabbed his lips with his napkin and burped very gently. He gestured at Elaine. ‘And if you’re the star at the lunch, as no doubt you will be before long, remember that even if you’re not speaking you’ll be performing. Be warm to people, make their day memorable for the simple fact of having sat next to you. You’re always on duty – there’s always somebody watching you.’

Watching her. Dickson was watching her, and not pretending. His gaze was disconcerting, yet not unpleasant. Her own reaction puzzled her. She felt an unwonted obligation to perform for the men at the table, directing her remarks at Boswood as the most senior, largely ignoring Andrew Muncastle but not avoiding Roger Dickson’s eye. That would have been impossible: every time she raised her own eyes from her plate he was looking at her, as if it were his right.

Elaine mused, ‘This job is rapidly metamorphosing into something quite different to what I imagined it would be. This place too.’

‘But are you enjoying it?’ Boswood looked like a benign Father Thames, ebullient, at ease. He was a little flushed after the wine, the bottle now standing empty.

‘Hugely. It’s just that it takes some getting used to.’

Muncastle agreed cautiously. Elaine regarded him more directly. It would help to tick his name off as somebody she had met, even though in manner and appearance he was, to say the least, unmemorable. Tall and fair, pleasant-looking but with a little frown-mark between the eyes: a mixture of formality and uncertainty. At that point Muncastle, who had declined coffee, rose to his feet as if the conversation were not quite to his taste and asked for his bill. He turned to Boswood.

‘I don’t think I want to know the tricks just yet, Sir Nigel. My voters already think I’m on the gravy train, simply by being here. I think I’d like them to stay wrong a while longer.’

Boswood heaved to his feet with a regretful sigh. ‘I too must take my leave: my boxes await.’ He bent over Elaine’s hand and to her delight kissed it, then swept off with an elegant waddle.

‘I like him,’ Elaine said, nodding at Boswood’s receding rump. Dickson agreed. ‘He’s a lovely man. One of the old school. Got in because of his connections, got on because he was competent, still there because everyone likes him. He always turns in a thorough and reliable job. Yet a chap like that would have trouble these days getting past a selection committee.’

‘Why? Skeletons in the cupboard?’

‘No, not at all; his personal life is impeccable, as far as I know. His background, I mean. Essex man would be suspicious of a tenth baronet. Inverted snobbery fills this place with used-car salesmen and estate agents instead of men with class like Nigel.’

Elaine stirred her coffee. ‘That’s a remarkably snobbish remark, Roger. You surprise me. Aren’t we the party of new wealth? Weren’t we represented too long by chaps with breeding but no brains? Surely it all changed when Mrs Thatcher came in.’

‘How short memories are, Mrs Stalker!’ Roger enjoyed an argument. ‘You forget that Ted Heath was the first party leader to be elected rather than emerging from that Smoking Room next door. Margaret didn’t change anything: she just made self-made men proud. My point is that there is less room left for good, decent types like Boswood, men with no axe to grind, not on the make, who understand precisely what
noblesse oblige
means – that inherited position and the security of not having to earn a living confer obligation, in his case public service.’

Dickson’s expression was friendly and encouraging. Under her lashes Elaine checked him out, trying to hide her interest, yet immediately conscious that he knew. His features were regular, the hair above the ears silvering lightly. In a fleeting examination she could not see what colour his eyes were, and chided herself for wanting to know. He wore a small signet ring, but no wedding ring; the cufflinks on a plain shirt were green and gold with the House of Commons portcullis. The effect was sober but stylish, and utterly masculine.

His manner suggested he was in no hurry either and would welcome further conversation. Elaine was not reluctant. To give herself time to think she played with her coffee. When she turned to the whip her expression was thoughtful and a little puzzled.

‘You appear to be saying that, for most of us, there’s a choice between being nice and being effective. But we can’t be both. Is that right?’

‘I’m not sure how to answer that. Of course it’s possible, as Nigel himself shows. But he does seem to be an exception, which suggests there is a rule. Competence in politics, particularly among ministers, requires hard talking and frequently unpopular decisions. If you’re too soft to do that you’re in the wrong job, period. You need ambition, not just for a sense of direction but to keep you going when times get rough. Promotions don’t just happen, Elaine. This is a fiercely competitive place. Yet there are unspoken rules, within these walls. For example: you’re a clever girl, but take care not to show that you know it.’

Elaine raised an eyebrow and made as if to protest, then thought better of it. Dickson was toying with a spoon, turning it over and over, as if the words he wanted to say were written in the curve of its bowl.

‘Don’t take that badly. There’s always a great deal of undeserved criticism, from the public, from the press, but worst of all from our own side. It can be very hard to take and perhaps a thick skin is essential, which can make the nicest person seem arrogant or insensitive. Yet you must go on feeling, somehow – about one constituent’s little problem, or about some poor child dying in the desert ten thousand miles away; if you never bleed, how can you understand others who bleed?’

He stopped suddenly; he had been musing almost to himself. Elaine was silent. The staff were beginning to look at the clock. Dickson shrugged, as if shaking off a heavy hand on his shoulder. He put the spoon down and smiled at her sheepishly.

‘Now then, Mrs Stalker. I will pass on the advice that wise old crow Attlee offered the young Roy Mason on his arrival in this place: “Specialise, and stay out of the bars.” The glorious Miss Boothroyd, whom you so admire, was given different guidance by Labour Chief Whip Bob Mellish nearly twenty years ago: “Keep your trap shut, girl, and you will get on.” No doubt you would bridle at such chauvinist suggestions. Betty certainly did, though on the whole she obeyed them. And, lastly, remember the three occupational hazards of being an MP: the three As. Do you know what they are?’