This Honourable House (10 page)

The bloody woman simply wouldn’t give up. It was so unreasonable. She’d been in the press again last week, claiming that Frank was sending her hate mail. Of course he wouldn’t do any such thing: he wasn’t the type and, anyway, he had far weightier matters to attend to. He wasn’t so petty-minded, though daft Gail must be if she suspected him. But the police weren’t fooled. They said they were investigating, but so far no action had been taken other than to monitor Mrs Bridges’ mail and alert the local sorting office. Much good that would do.

The former Mrs Bridges: Gail should stop using the name. It was Hazel’s now, and nobody else’s. Gail should revert to her maiden name and stop trying to make capital out of who she once was. The ex-wife. Poor Frank. Fancy being saddled all those years with such a misery. It was no wonder that he had wandered.

Now it was her role to keep him content. In her arms and nobody else’s. It would be easier if he weren’t so busy, and if he enjoyed going on holiday, but he didn’t. He protested mildly that he hated hot places or anywhere with mosquitoes, but where were the glamorous spots without them? His response was unenthusiastic to the main locations she suggested: Kenya on safari, the Indian Ocean, Florida. Hazel had a nasty feeling that if she booked something he would find urgent business to detain him in London at the last minute. That was what had felled the former Mrs Bridges, right in the airport. She must make sure it didn’t happen again.

He’d said she could come with him on official trips, but Euro-summits on transport were not the most enticing prospect. While he was embroiled in wearisome discussions that had him sitting up half the night shuffling the paperwork, she’d be stuck with the fat wife of the German ambassador or inarticulate and non-English speaking Poles and Romanians. Helsinki and Tallinn, the next two conferences in line, were not exactly throbbing suntraps replete with bronzed bodies. To her grumbles, Frank had said it wasn’t always so awful. If he was still in the same post next autumn they
might get a lively weekend in Rome. Lord, what an existence.

Hazel found a corner in the cupboard, dusted it with her handkerchief and placed the hat carefully where it would not easily be seen by a casual observer. She suppressed a yawn.

‘God! Did you find it boring too?’ came a pleasant voice behind her.

Hazel did not recognise the younger woman, who was smartly dressed in a peach wool outfit perfect for the cool autumn day. She was also removing a hat, a matching velour beret with a diamond pin, and patting her hair into order.

‘No – not boring, exactly, but it was a bit tricky to follow didn’t you find? All that “Honourable this” and “Right Honourable that” and bowing and scraping and everyone jumping up and down like jack-in-the-boxes.’

‘They’re trying to catch the Speaker’s eye.’ The girl laughed easily. ‘Waste of time today, when it’s been decided in advance.’

‘It would have been nice to hear my husband speak, though.’ Hazel allowed herself to sound duly wistful and laid some emphasis on the word
husband
.

The newcomer indicated that she was aware of Hazel’s identity and introduced herself. ‘I’m Fiona. I’m with Andrew Marquand.’ They shook hands.

Another woman came into the room, removing another hat. Christine Ashworth had opted for pale blue. All three had chosen British designer outfits bought from off-the-peg collections, and for much the same reasons: they were easy for the fashion writers to identify, were neither outlandish nor frumpish, and didn’t cost too much. Only Hazel’s magnificent hat had quite deliberately broken the basic rule of modesty.

Christine sashayed smoothly into the conversation. ‘You’re the girl at the Mirabelle, aren’t you? Fiona Sutton, isn’t it? Delightful pictures. He seemed quite besotted.’

‘Yes, well.’ Fiona fiddled with her handbag. ‘You shouldn’t read too much into that. It was a bit too arranged for my taste.’

‘I don’t suppose you should be telling us.’ Christine laughed conspiratorially. ‘Most of what they print is a setup, and we learn to live with it.’ She gazed fixedly at Fiona’s bare left hand. ‘No ring? If the press were right, he was on the brink of popping the question.’

‘Nonsense. As you say, we shouldn’t believe everything that’s in the newspapers.’ Fiona’s eyes were cold.

‘Of course. So you’re not moving into Number Eleven Downing Street yet? I’d have thought you’d find that most convenient. You’d get far more privacy behind closed doors.’

‘No. I have a business to run. My relationship with Andrew isn’t so involved.’

‘Just good friends, eh?’ Hazel nudged her. ‘That’s what we used to say too, me and my Frank. We got caught almost the same way. Not in a restaurant, out in the street. Same difference.’ She held out her own left hand and wiggled the laden ring finger.

‘Yes,’ Christine drawled. ‘Both Mrs Bridges here – it is Mrs Bridges, isn’t it? – and I are recently married, so you should be careful, Fiona. It might be catching.’

Fiona bit her lip. ‘Not at the moment, I’m afraid,’ she answered crisply. ‘Just good friends it is. Now if you’ll excuse me …’

Long after the front benches had departed, Edward continued to sit alone in the public gallery. He was riveted by every detail. The place was magic: every inch breathed history. He barely noticed as his joints became stiff, with his knees jammed awkwardly against the balustrade. The Victorians had not provided for modern elongated bodies.

He had to crane forward to see, and even then could observe the Members directly below only by half-lifting himself out of his seat, in some danger of tumbling down on to them. The acoustics also left much to be desired. A grille embedded in the back of the padded bench emitted
indecipherable burbles. The jerky movements of the unmanned cameras were a distraction; from watching the broadcast in Diane’s office he knew that the dull black eyes followed only whoever held the floor, and were not permitted to transmit flickers of impatience or boredom on the faces of those nearby. It was a skill universally admired to attract the cameras’ attention mischievously while someone else was in full flow, by rising to make a point of order, for example. Far more entertaining for the audience was the Member seated behind an orator caught absent-mindedly scratching his crotch.

There was no real value in staying, not after the main speeches. By tradition, two backbenchers, one distinguished, the other up-and-coming, had opened the debate with what they hoped were sparkling
bons mots
. Now they were probably on the Terrace congratulating themselves over champagne. Their predecessors included Steve Norris and Neil Hamilton, jokers all, men whose debating skills perhaps exceeded their moral fibre but who were universally regarded as ‘good House of Commons chaps’. It was the protagonists who counted. The Prime Minister had been magisterial, the Leader of the Opposition had tried to wound but failed, and Benedict Ashworth, with wit and good sense, had been paid the utmost compliment of having a virtually full House to listen and murmur approval.

Now the chamber was almost deserted, except for the handful of diehards dragooned by the whips to keep the debate going, or those with untamed egos whose remarks might achieve half a paragraph in their local newspaper in the middle of next week.

Edward wrestled with himself. He, too, should have found better use for the remainder of the afternoon. Diane might be searching for him, a chunk of work to be done (he was not yet important enough to be issued with a pager, and in any case would have had to turn it off in the chamber). Yet once he became busy on her behalf the chance to sit in the gallery would not present itself often and he was reluctant to curtail it.

Did this mean he really wanted to be an MP? The question, for anybody employed in the Palace of Westminster, was an obvious one, but still it was uncomfortable. Those men and women down there, notes clutched in hand, were not overpaid or much respected. Their potential for achievement was low, given that decisions were taken elsewhere. The hours they slogged for so little outcome were barmy, yet the House showed scant interest in reform. Their recognition factor in the street was far less than the average television weather girl’s, unless they became embroiled in scandal. If they were remembered at all after their years in the Commons it would be in a short obituary in
The Times
. The life was a hiding to nothing for anyone with a genuine taste for getting things done. To Edward, the conclusion was that it made far more sense to be a backroom boy: with marginally less salary and exposure perhaps, but also with far less hassle, and potentially with fun and satisfaction in spades.

He had not seen much of Diane. Not yet. The moment would come. She had airily invited him to dinner in the Members’ Dining Room, a privilege not afforded to every staffer or indeed to most, but usually reserved for constituency chairmen and visiting dignitaries. As the Serjeant-at-Arms had implied, he was lucky to be in her employ. Diane made a point of treating her staff well, he had been told. The remark had been accompanied by a wink he had been unable to fathom.

Let them criticise. It was merely an advanced form of envy. If that was his lot in carrying her name on his Commons pass, so be it. He was immensely thrilled to be here, and intended to savour every minute.

One by one they filed in. The public would have recognised Andrew Marquand, his dark curly hair untossed by the wind – he had strolled the few yards down a corridor from his own residence next door. The stocky figure of the Environment Secretary with his undiluted Scouse twang would also have drawn approving comment, as would the breezy entrance of Diane Clark, the government’s most popular member in every opinion poll. The voters would have been hard-put, however, to match names to the other faces. The fate of incoming ministers is to be derided as nobodies. The fate of most former office holders is to be forgotten. The perpetual misery of many serving ministers is that nobody knows who they are.

To begin with they collected in fidgety groups, with red folders under their arms, leaned on the ivory walls or propped themselves up on the leather chairs, hands tucked with apparent nonchalance in trouser pockets. They had passed the busts of Pitt and Disraeli outside the door but inside there were no images. Frank Bridges’ index finger ran idly over the gold-embossed coat-
of-arms
on his chairback. He did not dare sit. No one smoked; there were no ashtrays.

Diane had chosen sky blue for her outfit and made a conscious decision to be smarter than she had been in Opposition. The three other women present were conspicuous by their cream or red jackets and over-lacquered hair, for all had been through the efficient hands of Ms Barbara Follett, when the latter had been in favour. These ladies, respectively the Leader of the Commons, Leader of the Lords and Chief Whip, yearned to serve in splendour as Foreign Secretary or Chancellor, when, or if, the PM had the courage to appoint the first woman to these elevated posts. They made the effort not to congregate or talk exclusively to each other but to mix as equals with the men. Yet they were clearly not equals.

Behind the nervous clusters of politicians bustled advisers with clipboards and spin doctors in shirt-sleeves. One only was permitted to stay. Alistair McDonald was not strictly present, but without him no one would be sure afterwards which line to take.

Bringing up the rear, and about to enter together, were two tall, tidy men with flat bellies, trim haircuts and similar well-cut grey suits. One was the Prime Minister, the other the Cabinet Secretary and head of the Civil Service. They moved like brothers as if from the same stock. Both tried to mask public-school accents, but their easy manner, their polite deference to each other, were unmissable.

A hush descended. Every eye turned to the Boss as they waited for their cue. He was grinning even more broadly than usual. He waved them to their places round the table, ranked in order of precedence.

The Prime Minister let them take their seats. His was in the centre of one side of the ovoid table with the fireplace behind and was the only one equipped with arms. ‘Not had a lot of sleep, as you’d expect, but mother and baby are doing fine,’ he enthused gaily. He slapped his palms on the table as if to reassure himself that the polished old wood and leather were real. A ripple of applause broke out around the room with calls of congratulations.

‘How’s fatherhood – again?’ came a call.

‘Terrific. Terrific.’ The Prime Minister seemed unable to stop smiling and nodding. ‘Not sure I’d recommend five. It doesn’t get any easier, I can assure you.’ He poked a jovial finger in Frank Bridges’ direction. ‘You’d better be careful, Frank, with that smashing young wife of yours.’

A discreet snigger was hidden behind many hands. Frank tried to smile enigmatically, wondered whether to make a crack about taking precautions and thought better of it. It might be wiser to change the subject. ‘Now you’ve got the nursery set up, you can settle in for the duration,’ he responded. ‘With the majority we’ve got, you’ll be in that chair for a decade.’

‘Only a decade?’ The Prime Minister grinned at him. If that smile got any wider it’d meet round the back of his head. ‘So you don’t believe we’ll beat Margaret Thatcher’s record, then?’

Frank was flustered. ‘Of course we will. I didn’t mean to imply.’

The Prime Minister could afford to be gracious. ‘We must take nothing for granted. Our
ever-present
enemy is complacency.’

The group nearest to him exchanged indulgent smirks. Most had seen their majorities double or even treble at the last election. After years in the wilderness, a prolonged period of complacency was precisely what they felt entitled to enjoy.

‘No, I’m serious,’ the Prime Minister continued. ‘Never mind the polls. They’re great for us this year but they can turn sour overnight. Look, let me tell you. My constituency used to be part of George Brown’s. He sat over there, as deputy PM to Harold Wilson. He was so certain of his seat that in the 1970 campaign he didn’t go near it, but traipsed round the country making speeches for everybody else. Over two hundred of them, according to his memoirs.’

‘Aye, he came to mine,’ the Scottish Secretary reminisced. ‘I was only a young lad delivering leaflets but he still spoke to me. A fine man, George, when he wasn’t in his cups.’ He made as if to expand on the event, but caught the PM’s eye and fell silent.

‘He finally deigned to appear in his own patch,’ the Prime Minister continued severely, ‘on the evening before polling day itself. Off he went to canvass the mining villages. A chap walked up and tapped him on the shoulder. “Great to see you here, Mr Brown. Won’t you step into my house for a drop of refreshment?”’

A chuckle went round the Cabinet Room. ‘An invitation George would never refuse,’ said Frank.

‘Quite,’ the Prime Minister agreed. ‘But his local knowledge had gone rusty, and nobody warned him. What he didn’t realise was that the chap was a newly elected Tory councillor.’

‘Oooh! Dirty tricks!’ came a call from the far end. ‘Rotten sods. I wouldn’t put it past them, would you?’

‘Tricks we wouldn’t dream of perpetrating ourselves, naturally.’ The PM giggled. ‘So in he went, and enjoyed a cup of tea, then something stronger, and another and another. Till it was much too late to go out canvassing any more. He was struck by how knowledgeable his hosts were, and how interested in politics. And as they helped him down the steps into his car – few drink-driving laws in those days – he was heard to shout to all and sundry, “Don’t worry about tomorrow! It’ll be okay! We’ll see the buggers off, won’t we?”’

There was a respectful silence. The PM leaned forward and wagged an admonitory finger. ‘So they stuck their heads in through the window and said to him, “Yes, Mr Brown, we know.
Because we are the buggers
.”’

‘And the next day, he lost his seat, and the Tories were back in power,’ Frank finished.

‘Exactly.’ The Prime Minister sat back, firmly in command.

Behind him came a discreet cough from the Cabinet Secretary. ‘The officials are on hand now if you need them, Prime Minister.’

Immediately the demeanour changed. ‘Right! Let’s get on with it. Everybody ready? Chancellor, can we have the latest on the economy?’

Maddie Ashworth sat back in appreciation. ‘I do like the Savoy,’ she said. ‘They do these teas so nicely, don’t they?’ Her eyes roamed around the thickly carpeted lobby, which stretched virtually from the front of the hotel on the busy taxi-laden Strand to the back, overlooking the river. What a haven this was. Outside it was dusk, with trees blown bare and a touch of winter in the cold air. Inside were warmth and colour under brilliant chandeliers, the discreet hum of conversation masked by a tinkling selection from a grand piano painted white. Maddie’s gaze roved over the impeccable damask linen, the tiered plates filled with cream cakes and scones, the fluted china, the enormous gleaming teapot almost too heavy to lift, and she bounced in delight.

As if on cue an elderly waiter with a bony face appeared, grasped the teapot, placed the silver strainer in Maddie’s cup and poured. ‘Thank you,’ she said, a mite too loudly. He murmured and glided away.

‘Cake, Mother?’ Christine nudged the plate.

‘I shouldn’t.’ Maddie dimpled with pleasure. She selected an overfilled chocolate éclair on the grounds that she would have no trouble in naming it when describing the occasion to her friends. There was a correct title for that sumptuous puff-pastry scroll filled with strawberries and whipped cream, but it had escaped her. Nor could she guess what might be inside the delicate little pie with its tempting shortcrust dusted with icing sugar. The éclair was also the largest on offer, but that was irrelevant.

She turned over the cake-fork. ‘Everything’s silver. Hall-marked. But that’s what you’d expect, isn’t it?’ Her eyes moved from the fork to her handbag: a small souvenir would surely not be missed. She coughed regretfully and put the fork back in its place.

A disturbance from the stairs closest to the street entrance caught their attention. A
middle-aged
female, a former Rank starlet and the doyenne of a dynastic television series, had arrived and was making her entrance. She was sweeping down the wide steps in a white wool suit tightly belted at the waist to show off her hourglass figure. At each step she would pause like a Ziegfeld girl and turn out her ankles. A black hat with jaunty feathers framed a heart-shaped face with perfect skin and high cheekbones, the lips glossy red, the eyes violet and mischievous. Diamanté and pearl earrings dangled, bold and unmissable. If under the pearl necklace the skin was a little crêpey, if crows’ feet lurked near the exquisite eyes, those imperfections only emphasised the magnificence of the creation. About her scurried two dowdy women laden with Harrods bags. Behind swaggered a tanned young man with neat hips in denim. A hush fell.

‘Oooh, that’s,’ Maddie began, but Christine placed a finger on her lips.

‘Don’t, Mother, there are loads of famous people in here.’ Maddie’s eyes followed the star greedily. ‘Smashing legs, hasn’t she? And get that figure. I bet she works out. Can you imagine it?’

Christine smiled. ‘She’s not bad for her age, yes.’

Maddie cocked her head on one side. ‘How old is she, d’you reckon?’

‘It’s forty years since she was at Rank. Before I was born, anyway. She must be around
sixty-eight
, surely.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Maddie wriggled. ‘So she’s older than me. Exceptionally well preserved, then.’ She continued to stare openly. ‘D’you think she’s had a face lift?’

‘I haven’t the foggiest, Mother. It isn’t a subject on which I’m an expert.’

As the star swept into a side corridor with her scurrying entourage the buzz rose again. Maddie sighed wistfully. ‘You’re young, and pretty in your own right. You won’t have to worry about problems like that for years yet. So, tell me, how’s married life treating you?’

‘Splendidly, thank you, Mother.’

Maddie paused. ‘No babies yet?’

Christine stiffened. ‘It’s early days. I’ve only just set up my own company. I have clients to take care of. For some time to come.’

‘I always say,’ Maddie waved her fork to emphasise her words and scattered crumbs unheeded on the carpet, ‘that the most important
client
a married woman can have is her own husband. You youngsters, you have no idea. It’s all to do with loyalty and – what’s that word the agony aunts use? Commitment. That’s it, commitment.’ She sat back, satisfied with her speech, her jaws still moving.

Her daughter-in-law flushed. Maddie took another breath. ‘You won’t see thirty again, dear, and neither will my Benedict. If you two leave it too late you might find you’re too old to enjoy the children when they’re growing up. That’s what happens. Or, God forbid, that you can’t have children
in the end. This infertility, it’s not an accident. It has its roots in foolish decisions to postpone having babies for too long, you know. I’ve read about it. In my opinion it’s the result of silly ambitious girls putting their business careers before their wifely duties. Why, in my day if you weren’t expecting your first child at the age of twenty-five you were regarded as a bit past it.’

It must have dawned on the older Mrs Ashworth that she was having some effect, for she stopped suddenly and peered closely at Christine. ‘Have I upset you, dear? If so, I didn’t mean to. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I’m such a tactless person, everyone says so. Anyway, you’re my Benedict’s chosen and I wouldn’t hurt you for worlds.’

Christine’s head drooped. Maddie Ashworth folded her napkin and drew her chair closer. ‘Christine, dear, everything is all right, isn’t it?’

With an immense effort Christine assented.

Maddie Ashworth relaxed, though a frown creased her brows. ‘Good. You’re the perfect wife for him, dear. Your wedding was the best day in my life, apart from Benedict’s graduation.’

Christine lifted her head. ‘His graduation?’

‘Marvellous, that was. The sun shone, even in Scotland. And guess what, his tutor said Benedict was the finest student he’d had in years. The finest! My Benedict. His tutor. That’s Mr Marquand. He came to the wedding too. You remember who I mean?’

‘At lunchtime,’ Diane was explaining grandly, ‘we swap the dining rooms around. The Members’ is then used by people who want to bring in guests. The Strangers’ is for Members only. In the evening, like now, they go back to their origins.’

‘Why?’ Edward saw it was obligatory to ask. They were standing in the entrance of the Strangers’, a modestly sized but ornate room with the Commons’ green embossed-leather seats and patterned green carpet. The waiters wore green jackets. The green was overpowering. The effect was of an amateur operatic production of
Falstaff
in which it was held to be artistically important that everything in the Forest of Arden should match.

‘’Cause it’s bigger,’ Diane said. ‘We like having outsiders in for lunch, but since when we’re waiting for a vote the only thing to do is eat or drink, we keep that bigger room for ourselves at night. That also explains why there are so many bars and restaurants in the Palace of Westminster:
twenty-six
at the last count. And as they don’t need a licence they’re open as long as Members are here. At standing committees upstairs and the like. Some last through the night, especially on the Finance Bill.’