Children of the Master

by Andrew Marr

  As he headed downstairs to the breakfast area, shouldering past a dishevelled gladiator, he felt his mind race. He’d be absolutely open with Caro – tell her that she was the chosen one, explain what she’d have to do, give her his support, and tell her he was resigning from Parliament. She had a good tactical sense. She’d understand what was going on. She’d realise that this was the most important moment of her life. She’d brush his sleazy pleading about Angela aside. And she’d make the right decision; by refusing to disown her lover, she would save herself; by saving herself, she would save him. He’d get his honourable exit. The Master, having had two candidates, would be left with none.

  She just had to do the right thing.

  Feeling considerably brighter and sharper, Davie enquired of the restaurant manager where Mrs Phillips was sitting.

  ‘She not here,’ he shrugged.

  She’d have taken breakfast up in her room, perhaps. She was due to speak. She’d be rehearsing her speech, or struggling with some paperwork. Of course she wouldn’t have come down for breakfast; she, at least, was a professional.

  He banged three times on her door. No answer. Beginning to feel flustered, he went back downstairs to the reception desk, and asked the concierge to phone her room. Again, a shrug, and when he rang there was no answer. Pulling rank, and explaining that it was a matter of political importance, he persuaded one of the hotel managers to return upstairs with him and open Caroline’s door.

  She just had to do the right thing.

  In his head, spinning with dark dreams, Davie already knew what they’d find – the rumpled bed, the empty glasses scattered on the floor, and that beautiful, mature but almost flawless body lying naked, face-down, and lifeless.

  But he was wrong. The room was lifeless, certainly – it had been cleaned, and the bed had been made. There were no cases, papers, clothes or any other sign of Caroline Phillips. Even her scent had vanished. She had disappeared.

  Showtime

  God, but I hate the House of Commons.

  You know who

  Caro flashed her pass and strode through the security barriers at Portcullis House. As she click-clacked towards the Despatch Box, the little coffee bar that serves the building’s atrium, her colleagues put down their cups and stared at her. There were enemies here, as well as worshippers. At the little tables under the expensively rented fig trees, parliamentary officials, MPs and journalists circled, gossiped and conducted business. More political work, more real deal-making, goes on in the Portcullis atrium than in the lobby of the House of Commons – or in the chamber itself. Now it seemed that everyone was waiting for something, and was looking at Caro.

  She immediately picked out the tall, portly figure of Quentin Royle, with his heavy black glasses and his slicked-back custardy hair; the hero of the hard left, who had in the past been fancied by many as a future leader of the party. Since her first days in the House he had regarded her with naked contempt.

  ‘Going to let the rest of us in on the secret, Miss Caroline?’

  ‘All in good time, Quentin. If I’m lucky enough to catch the speaker’s eye, all will be revealed. No private briefings, I’m afraid.’

  Royle had an ability to smile without a twitch of good humour or warmth. ‘A word of advice, Miss Caroline. You’ve got a perfectly ordinary arse. The sun doesn’t shine out of it, whatever you may think. You’re not bloody unbeatable, you know. Today’s Evening Standard, I’m very sorry to say, calls you a cheat and a hypocrite. “The home secretary shacked up with a jailbird.” That’s what it says. You may come to rue the fact that you never bothered to make any solid friends in this party.’

  Caro felt the blood rush into her face and her heart begin to race. She mustn’t show any weakness. She mustn’t rush away, or stoop to abuse; almost certainly there would be journalists listening, or worse still, colleagues.

  ‘Quentin, dear – I’ve always thought “Quentin” was a strange name for the people’s hero, by the way, never mind “Royle” – you’re beginning to sound like a grubby little gossip. And the Standard isn’t out for hours yet.’

  ‘Come on, Missy, don’t –’

  ‘Which means that if any nasty words like that are indeed in it, they must have come from a certain Mr Quentin Royle, and nobody else.’

  ‘Don’t you dare impugn …’

  ‘Impugn? Oo la la. Careful, Quentin, or I might be tempted to complain to the chief whip about the tediously predictable misogynistic behaviour of some of my so-called brothers in the party. And Quentin, you might want to take a stiff brush to your shoulders, by the way.’

  Quentin struggled for a response. ‘Got a bit of toffee on your nose, Caroline?’ was the best he could manage. She smiled, bowed slightly and walked towards the lifts with her head held high. That hadn’t been so bad. A nearby backbencher who had been listening in gave her a surreptitious thumbs-up. But the truth was that Quentin Royle was wrong. Wrong about Angela, and wrong about Caro.

  Mr Speaker, who had reverted to the grey wig, court trousers and silk stockings of tradition, drew himself up to his full five feet of self-certain splendour.

  ‘Order, order! Personal statement, the home secretary. I call – Members must contain themselves, order! – the Right Honourable Member for Barker.’

  Caro, still wearing the blue silk trouser-suit she’d bought for Rome, stood up. She’d never felt more comfortable in this strange, fusty little amphitheatre. It was crowded, and as usual her enemies were sitting behind her, on her own side of the House. Facing her, the shadow home secretary, with his ratlike teeth and claw hands, was hunched, ready to leap. And yet she felt that around the chamber there was more curiosity than hostility; and perhaps, even now, more friendliness than curiosity.

  ‘Mr Speaker. As the House knows, I was meant to be in Rome this afternoon, at an international conference of great importance for the security and long-term prosperity of the British people. Before I say any more, I would like to place on record my profound apologies to all of my colleagues from Europe and North America for my sudden withdrawal. That conference was important. It still is important. But Mr Speaker, nothing is more important to me than my own honour, and the respect in which I hold this House. It therefore seemed paramount to me to lay before this honourable chamber certain facts, some of which have been well rehearsed in the media, and certain decisions which I have taken.’

  From the Labour, Conservative, Liberal Democrat and Ukip benches there came the same mixed symphony of sympathetic mutterings, grunts of bewilderment and ‘Get on with it’ groans. A Conservative Member rose to interrupt. Caroline waved him away.

  ‘As the House knows, my partner – indeed, my wife – the Reverend Angela Boswell, was arrested yesterday afternoon following a fatal road accident, and has subsequently been charged with the serious offence of driving with a blood alcohol level three times the legal limit. As home secretary, I cannot turn a blind eye to such an incident. Angela Boswell has been a loyal and close partner to me for many years. I believe she has also been a good and loyal servant of the Church of England, as her parishioners would confirm. But I have to say to the House that Angela Boswell has been battling with alcoholism for some time. I have done my utmost to support and help her to deal with this difficult problem. But it is with the utmost regret that I say, as home secretary, that she has brought her current problems entirely upon herself.

  ‘Under the circumstances, I feel I ought to make it clear to the House that we have now separated entirely. The Reverend Mrs Boswell will have her day in court, and I wish her every good fortune in the future. But I must also say that I hope and expect that the full force of the law will be exercised in this case, and no undue leniency granted because of the identity of the defendant. This was a terrible and serious crime, and deserves the sentence – including, should the court so decide, the custodial sentence – that would be applied in the normal way. That, too, I support.’

  There was a desperate scrambling in the press gallery ov
erhead, as journalists rushed to report the story. Down in the chamber, the music was entirely sympathetic. But Caroline had not finished.

  ‘I have not finished. Mr Speaker, the whole House has expressed its gratitude to the prime minister for the remarkable service he has done his party and the country. But we are all aware that, for good and honourable reasons, the Member for Dunton has decided to step aside. Today, having dealt with my own painful personal issue, I would like to make it clear that I intend to stand for the leadership of my party, and if I have the good fortune to be successful, I hope to be invited to be the next prime minister of this country.’ There were roars and whoops from the Labour benches, theatrical groans and dismissive wavings of order papers from the opposition side. The Conservative leader, Sir Boris Johnson, shook his balding head and jabbed his thumb downwards.

  A Stranger in Barker

  Go into politics, and the only people you are certain to hurt are your kids.

  The Master

  Nicky was smiling. Yet again, he hadn’t gone to school. He stared through the heavy rain at the Toyota Prius gliding away from the house. It had been the second visit from social services, and the second clear home win to Nicholas Boswell. He wasn’t quite seventeen, but he knew he came across as older. It wasn’t so much his incipient moustache as his heavy, stolid, expressionless face and his calm voice. Ben had left for school on time as usual, but there was no legal obligation for Nicky to attend, and the fierce little woman from the council had found it hard to suggest that he wasn’t a responsible adult. The house was clean, he’d cooked breakfast and cleared it away. Since his mother had been gone, there were no empty bottles lying around. The council woman had said she was going to come back with a colleague for a second opinion, but Nicky had the feeling that the fight had gone out of her.

  He could manage fine. The only problem would be money; Angela quickly ran through what she got from the Church every month, and although he had discovered her debit card and knew her pin, the £2,000 that had been in her account had already almost gone. He’d phoned Caroline several times, but she hadn’t picked up. Probably she didn’t have his number on her mobile, so she didn’t know who was ringing. And she had a big political thing on. Still, he wanted to see her. And not just for the money.

  Really, he thought, his mother ought to be out on bail. They should have just banned her from driving until the case came up. But the paparazzi had been hanging around the house for days. They’d rung the doorbell again and again. When Angela had closed the curtains, they’d knocked on the windows. They’d got into the back garden by climbing the neighbours’ fence, and had started taking pictures of the kitchen. Angela, inevitably, had had a few, and had stormed out and grabbed some guy’s camera and smashed it. Then the police turned up – they’d ignored all Angela’s pleas to help keep the hacks at bay, but the minute a Nikon got cracked they were all over the house like insects. Angela, in her clerical collar, had gone out and slapped a six-and-a-half-foot-high constable. It was just, as she said, an open-handed slap, not a punch, but they arrested her anyway. The pictures had been great.

  Nicky couldn’t make head or tail of it all, but one thing he did know was that Mum clearly wasn’t coming back any time soon. At least the photographers had gone away. He and Ben were under age, so there was no money to be made from shots of them.

  He dug his hands into his pockets and flexed his legs. Things were going all right, given the circs. Ben was moody and kept telling him to eff off; but Ben was fourteen, and although he was big for his age, he hadn’t yet reached puberty. It was understandable if he had things on his mind.

  Nicky saw an alien car enter the close. By ‘alien’ he meant that it couldn’t possibly have come from around here. An old Land Rover, covered in rust patches and splatters of bright red soil, it was the kind of car that would normally have accommodated half a dozen wet and overexcited dogs; but there were no farmers and no landowners around Barker. The driver accelerated past their house, screeched to a halt and then reversed back, dangerously. Out of the car stepped a tall, plain woman with an enormous bosom. This, Nicky thought, must be the other woman from the council. She looked a lot more formidable than her predecessor. The bell rang angrily, and he nipped downstairs to open the door.

  ‘Benjamin? No, you must be Nicholas. My name is Elizabeth. But you can call me Lady Broderick.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Nicky. Are you from the council?’

  ‘No, Nicky, I’m not from the council. In fact I’ve come to help you escape from the council. You can’t stay here. Not with what’s happened to your poor mother and that ghastly girlfriend of hers. I was very fond of the vicar, and I always thought I’d try to help her out if I could. Now, can you get everything you’ll need into a single suitcase?’

  ‘I … No, I can’t. Where you taking me? And what about Ben? I’m not going anywhere without him.’

  Lady Broderick marched into the house. ‘You’re going to do what you are told, young man. Angela was always hopeless. We’ll pick Ben up at school. I want you to pack a suitcase for yourself – just the essentials, clothes, gumboots, books, that kind of thing – and one for Ben as well. You can do that, can’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose. But why?’

  ‘Because you’re coming back to Pebbleton with me. Warm rooms, plenty of space to play outside, good old-fashioned cooking – not me, Cook. And you know the schools already. And then we’ll see what happens to your mummy, but at least she’s not going to have to worry about you pair for a while.’

  Nicky opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He had been about to protest that he liked it in Barker, and that he and Ben could manage, and that Caro would help, and that he didn’t want to go back to Pebbleton. But then he realised that none of it was true. Caro wasn’t going to help. Ben had got hold of her a couple of days before, and she’d apparently said to him, ‘Ben, I am not your mother.’ Nicky had pushed this out of his mind, and tried not to dwell on it. But if Caro cared about them, she would have been here by now. And he remembered how much Angela had always told them she liked Lady Broderick. He did want to go. He turned to go upstairs and begin packing, but then paused.

  ‘All right. But I have two conditions. I’m not going to go to school any more. And I’m going to call you Elizabeth.’

  ‘You’re a very cheeky young man. No, to the school – you bloody well will go. But yes, if you insist, to Elizabeth.’

  Two hours later the battered Land Rover, which did indeed smell strongly of wet labrador, was charging south-west across country towards Devon.

  The Triumph of the Fourth Estate

  If the hacks are as one, then it’s horseshit.

  The Master

  The media coverage of Caroline’s speech was almost unanimous: she had acted bravely, and shown herself to be not just another member of the cynical and out-of-touch political establishment. The Guardian’s political editor, Jonathan Freedland, wrote that ‘Mrs Phillips has not tried any special pleading or expected the country to treat her differently just because she happens to be gay. Her personal courage reminds one of … Well, it doesn’t remind one of anybody else. And that, surely, is the point.’

  The Times leader writer felt that ‘If Mrs Phillips’ partner is found guilty of the crime of which she is accused, she will have caused just as much hurt and destruction to another family as if she had walked out with a gun and shot a cyclist down. As for Mrs Phillips herself, she seems to be a modern, forward-looking enthusiast for Britain’s relationship with America, and we welcome her candidacy for the leadership of her party, and the country. Certainly she cannot do worse than her woeful predecessor.’

  The Sun’s headline read: ‘Sexy Caroline: I’m Free!’

  Only the Daily Mail did not join in the general enthusiasm. Its front page asked the question: ‘Is She Really Gay?’ In an opinion piece, the very elderly Sir Stephen Glover referred to widespread rumours that ‘Mrs Phillips’ much-advertised Sapphic enthusiasm is just a clever marketi
ng ploy. The names of various possible boyfriends have been circulating at Westminster for some time. If she does indeed win her party’s leadership, and then brings a boyfriend with her into Downing Street, she will have proved herself just another cynical female con-artist.’

  Still, for the moment there was a general groundswell of warmth and affection for Caro that couldn’t be misunderstood.

  Soon afterwards, Alwyn Grimaldi called a special conference of the Labour Party at Stoke-on-Trent, where, with clear majorities from the parliamentary party and the socialist clubs, plus the support of the public-sector trade unions, Caroline Phillips trounced her only serious rival, Gloria de Piero. To widespread surprise, David Petrie chose not to stand, but instead called on his supporters to back Mrs Phillips, whom he described as ‘a loyal comrade who understands the reality of power and has developed policies that will enable a modernised Labour Party to achieve its ends’. There were rumours that the new leader intended to appoint him foreign secretary.

  A Minor Failure of Empathy

  We have the finest jails in the Western world.

  Caroline Phillips, home secretary

  Angela stared at the green-painted walls of her cell, a Good News Bible in her hands, a small, dusty transistor radio stuttering beside her, and failed to digest the news about Caro’s elevation. She was allowed a small television as well as the radio, and she watched and listened obsessively. None of it made the slightest sense. Caro was a good person. Angela realised now that she had been moving away, turning off the lights, for weeks. But she could never have foreseen that speech. Not that scale of betrayal. Caro might not be very high on the empathy scale, but she had always been a good person. Ever since they had met at school she had been Angela’s rock. Far more than just her lover, she had been her best friend, her confidante, her pal in the great adventure of life, her other mother – her better mother. Never cruel, never a liar.