Authors: Chris Wimpress
‘Well, before he was an MP. And Rosie, she came before that, so it’s nothing. If people want to put it in the diary columns, that’s fine, but nobody’s really going to care. I don’t care, neither should you.’ I could hear my voice rising, becoming pinched.
‘Oh, there won’t be anything from me on the news about this, I promise. I agree with you, honestly.’ I think Liz wanted to touch me, but she didn’t know me quite well enough. ‘But I think there’s something else, Ellie. I’m not sure. If they were just having an affair, it’d be out there by now. Something else. It’s just a feeling.’
I wasn’t going to thank to her for not running a story, it would’ve implied that I owed her something. ‘I ought to go and find James, really. I’ll see you soon, I’m sure. Number 10 press drinks, perhaps.’
‘Thanks, Ellie,’ Liz pushed open the door and held it for me as I stepped back into the corridor. We walked away from each other, saying nothing more.
There weren’t many MPs about – after the confidence vote they’d either gone home or to the bars. Still there were half a dozen Tories – all men – gathered at the door to the Commons behind the Speaker’s chair. One of them was the former chief whip under James’s predecessor, who kissed me on the cheek. They were jockeying, testing the water and gossiping.
A security attaché was standing guard outside the door to the PM’s office as I’d expected, but slightly more surprising was Rosie’s presence, waiting to get some alone time with James, no doubt. ‘He’s on the phone just now,’ she said to me, not quite blocking my path but looking like she dearly wanted to. ‘To the White House,’ she added, once it was obvious I intended to troop past her anyway.
‘Don’t worry Rosie, I’ll be as quiet as a mouse.’ It came out in a patronising manner, I’m not sure whether I intended that or not. I walked past her and quietly opened the door. Inside James was sitting at his desk, he looked up in irritation at the interruption.
‘Thanks so much Morgan,’ he said into the phone. ‘It’s good to get it out of the way, and to be able to start planning things properly.’
Even from four feet away I could hear Morgan’s voice reverberating from the handset. I couldn’t make out exactly what she was saying but some of the words were over-emphasised. I heard a laconic ‘so’ at one point, and then an equally drawn-out ‘know’.
‘Well I think it’s definitely worth pursuing,’ said James into the phone. ‘Turkey seems to think they can get Ramallah to concede the remaining settlements. I wouldn’t want to rule out at least exploring what the Israelis might offer in return.’
There was more chat from Morgan. I distinctly heard the word ‘naïve’.
‘I certainly will,’ said James. ‘I agree, some continuity at the Foreign Office is ideal at the moment, it’s good to know everything’s, er, everything’s satisfactory on that front. Thanks. And you. Will do. Bye.’ He put the phone down and I took a couple of steps toward him. ‘What’re you doing here?’
‘I came to watch the confidence vote,’ I said. ‘Thought it would be a good show of support.’
‘You were up in the galleries?’ I nodded and he sighed. ‘Look L, that was very sweet of you, but I’d rather you’d discussed it with me first. It doesn’t look good on me, this idea that I need my wife here to help me through a Commons vote.’
‘Sorry,’ I said.
He ran his hand through his hair. ‘It’s fine, it’ll probably get drowned out in the reshuffle news,’ James stood up, came over and kissed me on the forehead. ‘Glass of wine?’
‘I thought you were still busy shuffling?’ I still felt chastised.
‘I can afford a break. Anyway I need Rav, and he’s gone back to Number 10. She sends her love, by the way.’ James was opening a screw-top bottle of red wine, having produced two whisky tumblers from a cabinet behind his desk.
‘Her love? That’s a bit strong.’
‘You know what she’s like,’ James came over and handed me a glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said, clinking my glass before sitting down on the sofa opposite me.
‘Congratulations on the vote,’ I said. ‘I mean, not a single rebel.’
‘Oh, it won’t take them long to start making trouble, especially when they see who I’m sacking,’ There was a smirk lurking in James’s face.
‘So am I the first to know?’ I tried to make it sound flirtatious and it didn’t quite work.
‘Apart from Rav. I’ll need to get Rosie in here for a final briefing, is she still outside?’ I nodded. ‘I ought to get her in, so she can go home and get some sleep. It’ll be a another long day tomorrow,’ James went to stand up.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Tell me the highlights first.’
He smiled, patiently. ‘Alright,’ he sat back down on the sofa, took a fairly large glug of wine. ‘Rob Kitchener for the Treasury, as you’d expect. Hugo’s staying at Foreign, Gilly to the Home Office.’
‘Really?’ I was surprised at this last bit. Gilly Caulfield wasn’t in James’s camp, and I knew he’d promised the Home Office to Jack Gorton, who’d been one of his key backers.
‘I need to keep Gilly close, she’s going to be a menace otherwise,’ said James, as though it were blindingly obvious.
‘Is she competent enough?’
‘Not really, but hopefully she’ll screw things up so royally I can just sack her within a year, that’ll take the sting out of her. Anyway do you want to hear the rest?’
‘Any interesting ones?’
‘Well, a couple of people are staying where they are, but I’m offering Drake party chairman.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘No, it’ll only be for a year or so, and he might turn it down. But I need to offer him something, and he might be useful in keeping the old guard in check.’
I was genuinely shocked. ‘Do you think he’ll accept it?’
‘I think he will,’ James drained his glass. ‘Rav thinks it’s a good idea and I’ve been won round to the merits of it, shall we say. Right, I think we should get out of here. Rosie!’
The door opened and she came in. Clearly she’d been listening; I imagined her head cocked to the keyhole.
‘We’re going back over the road, Rosie,’ said James, standing up. ‘Do you want to come with us and I’ll brief you on the way? Or first thing tomorrow?’
‘Tonight would be better,’ said Rosie. ‘I’ve agreed to leak something for the morning, and they’re waiting for me to come back to them.’
‘Okay, but I don’t want to give them anything major,’ James was putting on his suit jacket which had been hanging from the back of his desk chair. ‘Tell them Rob’s going to be chancellor.’
‘I’m not sure they’ll be happy with that, it’s not much of a surprise,’ To be fair to Rosie it was an onerous job, having journalists constantly badgering her.
‘I don’t want the rest of it leaking out tonight,’ said James as we walked out of his office, heading down a flight of stairs to the internal courtyard where the PM’s car was waiting. Big Ben was striking ten. It was late September but still muggy, nobody was really sleeping particularly well and party conference season was looming.
TV crews and photographers were waiting at the gates to Parliament, the camera flashes temporarily blinded me. The next morning I’d see those photos splashed all over the news. I’d looked pretty happy, quite self-satisfied. And I had been, because Rosie had been denied her time alone with James in his office.
The music coming from inside La Roda isn’t familiar but still I understand every single word; James never knew I’d learned a fair bit of Portuguese. The song’s about overpowering love, intense emotions that you can’t bear to lose. It’s there in the man’s thin voice, the fear and apprehension. My own experience of love has been far less easy to define; more malleable. I’m not sure I could pack it into one song.
I pick up a stoneless olive, chew on it briefly and swallow. Taste and texture in my mouth, but no sensation of it going down. No hunger to quell. Jean and Bill don’t seem to care that I’ve been regressing. Both of them are just looking out to sea.
‘I keep remembering things,’ I say to them. ‘About my life.’
‘Oh you will, love,’ says Bill. ‘For a while, at least. Then you’ll decide whether you want to stay or not.’
Then I have a sense of something; it comes and goes quickly but lingers. It’s my mother’s hands, cupped underneath my chin. Soothing me. Quietly shushing me. It makes me feel like crying, almost.
Jean selects a cherry. ‘Don’t worry about it, flower. It won’t be long now. Really it won’t.’
‘So you both chose to stay here, then. You made that decision together?’
They look at each other and then Jean looks at me. ‘We can’t be apart from each other. What was your name again?’
‘Ellie.’
‘Ellie. Sorry, love. You get to see so many people sitting out here, but they don’t stay long. Who knows what comes after this?’ She looks over at her husband. ‘No, Bill and I made the same choice. You can always change your mind, but we lived long lives and there’s a lot for us to remember. Perhaps we’ll make the journey together, but there’s no need to rush, is there?’
‘The journey?’
‘Out of the village. That’s where people go when they’re ready. Nobody comes back.’
Would having a shorter life mean fewer memories for me to reabsorb? ‘I was married to the prime minister before I came here,’ I say, and Bill raises his eyebrows with interest. ‘I don’t expect you to believe me.’
‘Of course we do,’ says Jean. ‘Why would you be fibbing?’
Why indeed. ‘I could tell you about the world, the way things have been. If you wanted to hear that.’
Bill shakes his head, dismisses the idea with a wave. ‘You’re alright, love. But tell us about your husband, what colour was he?’
‘What colour?’
‘You know, Labour, Conservative?’
‘Oh,’ I laugh, for the first time. ‘He’s a Tory, the MP for Eppingham. We were about to go into an election year.’ It’s hard to explain James without describing recent events. I touch on the brownouts, the years of political turmoil which had caused them. Jean tuts and says she never had much time for politicians. Almost defending James, I tell them about the peace treaty and try to recount those final hours in Israel. I find them strangely difficult to recall. Even though I’ve revisited them in my mind and explained them to Luis not long before, the memories won’t come easily. I expect to feel something, some bad emotion, some sense of abomination. But nothing.
‘Once you’ve remembered, it’s normal to forget,’ offers Jean, her eyes out to sea once more. ‘That’s what happens here, it’s what you’re here to do. Remember, then forget.’
I ask them if they’d had children and Jean says yes, two boys, but she doesn’t expect to see them in Naviras. ‘They’ll be in their own place, with their own families,’ she says, without regret.
‘Maybe that’s why I’m finding this... I feel my life’s been cut short, I won’t watch my kids grow up.’
Is that a flicker of sympathy in Jean’s eyes? ‘Most people in your situation don’t stay here that long. We’re lucky in that sense, our boys had grown up, so we let go of them in life. I’m quite content where I am, and I’d never leave Bill.’
‘And I’d never leave you, love,’ Bill leans over and kisses his wife on the cheek. I can almost feel Jean’s happiness radiating out from her, beckoning me to engage with it, add my own joy to the mix.
‘I need to check for my husband,’ I stand up quickly, and for the first time I actually feel something, not dizziness but a sense of inertia, like mild in-flight turbulence. ‘He wasn’t down at the beach bar,’ I continue, once the feeling’s passed. ‘So I’m going to check up at Casa Amanhã.’
Jean laughs. ‘Ah, you used to go up there often? How lovely for you! Why don’t you pop up there and see? You must know Lottie.’
‘Yes, I know her very well. I was on the way to see her, actually.’
‘Well, why don’t you go up there then? She’ll be delighted, I’m sure.’
I promise them I’ll return, both just nod casually. I walk down the steps and cross the square, heading for the travessa to Casa Amanhã.
I’m walking up
Travessa de Cosmo,
a narrow conduit that cuts right through the village. An alleyway, I suppose it would be called in Britain, running between the backs of the cottages. Until I’d first come to Naviras I’d been a bit sniffy about people who went back to the same place on holiday every year. I’d always gone to far-flung places with my parents as a girl, never the same place twice, really, not until I came to Naviras.
I’ve reached the end of the Travessa. To my left the walls surrounding Casa Amanhã, the house obscured by the trees as usual. On the other side of the street just empty space where the old churchyard should be, the place where Lottie had been buried and Luis was remembered. No church with its low triangular roof and square minaret, no gravestones, they’re missing. Of course they’re missing; how could there be graveyards after death? They’re for the living, if anyone. I only ever went in there once, and that was once too often.
Reflecting on the absence of the churchyard makes me realise and accept something once and for all; I’m not going to see my mother here. If she’s anywhere, and presumably like me she must be somewhere, it’s not going to be here. And that’s because Lottie’s here. She and my mother could never be in the same place at the same time, it would violate the natural order of things.