already moved into the constituency don’t, not if you ever want any peace.’
‘It’s too late I’m there already. Actually I like it, but thanks for the advice.’
Elaine felt chided and vaguely cross, but was not about to dispute with her newly acquired treasure. Leaving Diane muttering at the heaps as Karen discreetly headed for the photocopier, Elaine walked down the corridor, trying to get her bearings.
It was all turning out much harder than she had anticipated. Why did everybody try to persuade her to do things differently? Never in her life before had her competence been so thoroughly and regularly
questioned. It was like the first few weeks in the bottom class of a fast-moving new school. Did it make any sense to make new MPs feel so inadequate? Did everybody else feel the same, or was it just her?
Chapter Three
Andrew Muncastle sat on the edge of his seat and waited. This was it .
Tubby Peter Pike, Labour front-bench spokesman on the environment, wagged his stumpy finger one last time in mock fury at the government and settled back on the green leather to the ragged cheers of his supporters.
In truth there was not a lot for Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition to feel happy about, after losing another election. The greasy-pole game – who was out, who was in, which names were moving smoothly up, which into political oblivion – now dominated bars and tea rooms. The performances of the front bench, particularly newish faces like Keith Quin and Janey Irvine, were under close scrutiny. Such gossipy evaluation gave hope and a flicker of interest to both sides. There would be new leaders. There would always be another election.
There would always be new entrants waiting nervously at the starting gate. Andrew felt his mouth go dry as Speaker Boothroyd rose to her feet.
Betty Boothroyd looked splendid. She had dispensed with the wigs worn by her predecessors for hundreds of years, and in so doing had sparked off a debate among the judiciary as to whether the wearing of stiff powdered horsehair on one’s head conferred more dignity on the wearer, or less. She fitted everyone’s idea of a bright, formidable, no-nonsense north-country headmistress. It felt like a revolution.
Up in the gallery Tessa Muncastle held Barney’s hand. Next to her, rigid and proud, sat Andrew’s grandfather, now over eighty. In the car coming down Sir Edward had tried talking about his own days in Westminster but quickly sensed that Tessa, keeping half an eye on Barney and threading through unfamiliar London traffic, was not really interested. Women had better manners in his day. Lady Muncastle, the old duck, had probably been just as bored with his rattlings-on but at least she had pretended and been jolly supportive, at any rate in public. His granddaughter-in-law was a different matter. This pale, preoccupied woman would have a dismal time as an MP’s wife if she really found the whole business a chore and couldn’t be bothered to hide it.
Tessa screwed her lacey handkerchief into a ball. Her palms were sweaty and itchy. In recent weeks her eczema had flared up again. It was as if the tension found its way into her bloodstream and there turned to acid, so that her perspiration became a cruel, unstoppable dew attacking her sensitive skin in the worst places. It was starting again around her armpits and inside elbows and knees and under her breasts, and would be the devil to shift. Hot nights in London were the worst. She would wake up scratching, rubbing sore patches, trying to keep her hands away from the flaming skin down there between her legs, until at last she would give up and head for the bathroom and shudder as cold water touched the hot flaky flesh. Andrew regarded it dully as just one more reason why she didn’t like him to touch her. It was hard to explain her anxieties. Initially sympathetic, he had lost patience little by little; it was simpler to leave her alone.
The Speaker knew where Andrew was sitting, had
‘It’s too late I’m there already. Actually I like it, but thanks for the advice.’
Elaine felt chided and vaguely cross, but was not about to dispute with her newly acquired treasure. Leaving Diane muttering at the heaps as Karen discreetly headed for the photocopier, Elaine walked down the corridor, trying to get her bearings.
It was all turning out much harder than she had anticipated. Why did everybody try to persuade her to do things differently? Never in her life before had her competence been so thoroughly and regularly
questioned. It was like the first few weeks in the bottom class of a fast-moving new school. Did it make any sense to make new MPs feel so inadequate? Did everybody else feel the same, or was it just her?
Chapter Three
Andrew Muncastle sat on the edge of his seat and waited. This was it .
Tubby Peter Pike, Labour front-bench spokesman on the environment, wagged his stumpy finger one last time in mock fury at the government and settled back on the green leather to the ragged cheers of his supporters.
In truth there was not a lot for Her Majesty’s Loyal Opposition to feel happy about, after losing another election. The greasy-pole game – who was out, who was in, which names were moving smoothly up, which into political oblivion – now dominated bars and tea rooms. The performances of the front bench, particularly newish faces like Keith Quin and Janey Irvine, were under close scrutiny. Such gossipy evaluation gave hope and a flicker of interest to both sides. There would be new leaders. There would always be another election.
There would always be new entrants waiting nervously at the starting gate. Andrew felt his mouth go dry as Speaker Boothroyd rose to her feet.
Betty Boothroyd looked splendid. She had dispensed with the wigs worn by her predecessors for hundreds of years, and in so doing had sparked off a debate among the judiciary as to whether the wearing of stiff powdered horsehair on one’s head conferred more dignity on the wearer, or less. She fitted everyone’s idea of a bright, formidable, no-nonsense north-country headmistress. It felt like a revolution.
Up in the gallery Tessa Muncastle held Barney’s hand. Next to her, rigid and proud, sat Andrew’s grandfather, now over eighty. In the car coming down Sir Edward had tried talking about his own days in Westminster but quickly sensed that Tessa, keeping half an eye on Barney and threading through unfamiliar London traffic, was not really interested. Women had better manners in his day. Lady Muncastle, the old duck, had probably been just as bored with his rattlings-on but at least she had pretended and been jolly supportive, at any rate in public. His granddaughter-in-law was a different matter. This pale, preoccupied woman would have a dismal time as an MP’s wife if she really found the whole business a chore and couldn’t be bothered to hide it.
Tessa screwed her lacey handkerchief into a ball. Her palms were sweaty and itchy. In recent weeks her eczema had flared up again. It was as if the tension found its way into her bloodstream and there turned to acid, so that her perspiration became a cruel, unstoppable dew attacking her sensitive skin in the worst places. It was starting again around her armpits and inside elbows and knees and under her breasts, and would be the devil to shift. Hot nights in London were the worst. She would wake up scratching, rubbing sore patches, trying to keep her hands away from the flaming skin down there between her legs, until at last she would give up and head for the bathroom and shudder as cold water touched the hot flaky flesh. Andrew regarded it dully as just one more reason why she didn’t like him to touch her. It was hard to explain her anxieties. Initially sympathetic, he had lost patience little by little; it was simpler to leave her alone.
The Speaker knew where Andrew was sitting, had
Similar Books
