Sheer Abandon

by Penny Vincenzi

  Despite the fact that there is much that is rotten in the state of Millbank, the Tories seem incapable of making any capital out of it. Is it really possible that, within the confines of the party, there is no one able to fight for it? One of the biggest of the Tory big beasts, now in the Lords, told me last night that if only Janet Frean (sacked from the shadow cabinet eight months ago for her over-vigorous pro-European stance) or Chad Lawrence (similarly treated as a result of his refusal to toe the party line on asylum seekers) were brought back into the front line, the opposition could rediscover some of its muscle. Which has gone very flabby.

  Wanted: a Rambo (or Rambette) for the Tory Party. Before it dies on its feet.

  Martha didn’t know quite enough about the political press to recognise the article for what it was—not just a piece of political comment but part of a painstakingly planned piece of propaganda for Lawrence and Frean—but she did feel a rush of excitement at having met what were clearly key people in an unfolding drama. An excitement which, she realised, the law had failed to deliver to her for some time now.

  Just the same, if anyone had told her that less than a year later she would be the prospective parliamentary candidate for Binsmow, she would have assumed they were stark raving mad.

  Chapter 6

  “What a pair of tossers,” said Kate, peering over her father’s shoulder at the newspaper. “Who are they?”

  “Kate, that’s not a nice word.”

  “Sorry, Dad. Who are they?”

  “That one is Kenneth Clarke. And that one is Iain Duncan Smith.”

  “So. Who are they?”

  “Oh dear. Don’t they teach you anything at that school of yours? Iain Duncan Smith has just become leader of the Tory Party.”

  “Why should they teach us that at school?” she said, genuinely puzzled. “What have they got to do with us?”

  “Well, quite a lot in theory,” said Jim, “although it’s really rather unlikely. I hope so, anyway.”

  “Me too. I don’t want anything to do with people who look like that. Is it all right for me to go to London on Saturday?”

  “It depends where you’re going.”

  “Oh…” Kate’s voice was vague. “You know. Around. Covent Garden, that sort of thing. I’ll be back before dark. Don’t worry. And I won’t talk to any strange drug peddlers. Or join up with any terrorists.”

  “Who are you going with?”

  “God! What is this? I’m only going shopping. I’m going with Sarah and Bernie and a few others. Look. I’m fifteen. I had no idea we were still living in the dark ages.”

  “Kate—”

  “I’m going anyway. And now I’m going to school. Is that all right? Or do you want to escort me there? Put me on reins or something?”

  “Kate,” said Helen, “you haven’t had any breakfast—”

  “I don’t want any breakfast. I feel sick. See you. Juliet, you ready? Or are you having a second bowl of fibre, like the good little girl you are?”

  “No, I’m ready,” said Juliet, pushing back her chair, following Kate out into the hall. She had actually wanted a piece of toast, but she didn’t want to be left alone with her parents after Kate had gone. Kate would accuse her of taking their side against her.

  They walked down the street together, Juliet frantically checking what was in her satchel as they went.

  “God, they are just so ridiculous,” said Kate. “I mean, I don’t know anyone who has to ask permission to go out shopping. Do you?”

  “Well, no,” said Juliet, “but it’s not just shopping, is it? Not to Dad.”

  “What does that mean? You think I’m going to meet up with some boys and start smoking spliffs or something?”

  “Of course not. Don’t be stupid. I suppose he thinks you’re going to hang around the streets, as he puts it, and meet people he doesn’t know—”

  “Thank God!”

  “And get in with a bad lot. Oh, Kate, don’t look at me like that, I’m only telling you what he thinks. I think it’s stupid too, of course I do.”

  Kate sighed. Then she said, “It’s all because of my mother, I suppose. He’s afraid I’m going to turn out really badly like her. Get pregnant, end up on the streets.”

  “I—I suppose that might have something to do with it,” said Juliet reluctantly. “It really is stupid, because he doesn’t know she ended up on the streets. She might be some terribly successful person by now. He just doesn’t know.”

  “Nor do I. None of us do.” Kate’s voice was heavy suddenly. “God, I wish I did. I wish I knew something about her. Just something. What she looked like—”

  “Well, you do know that,” said Juliet, struggling to ease her mood. “A bit. I mean, she’s probably tall and slim and blond, with curly hair like yours—”

  “Not necessarily. Your hair isn’t like Mum’s, you’ve got brown hair.”

  “Mouse, you mean,” said Juliet.

  “Well, it was you who said it. You’re not a bit like her altogether, much more like Dad; you’ve got brown eyes and his sort of pale skin. I might be the same, I might be like my dad. My mother might be a tiny round little person, with grey hair in a bun.” She was silent for a moment. “It’s about the worst thing, you know. Not having the faintest idea what she’s like. Sometimes I look at people on the bus, for instance, and I think that woman sits like I do, with her legs crossed quite high up, maybe she’s my mum. I have absolutely no idea and no way of finding out. It’s like being—oh, I don’t know. Like I didn’t come from anywhere. Like I just fell to earth and Mum and Dad picked me up.”

  “Like Superman,” said Juliet and giggled. “Sorry, Kate. I don’t think it’s funny. I think it’s horrid for you. I don’t know what I’d do. Are you still looking for her?”

  “Of course. But I’m giving it a rest for a while.” Her voice was suspiciously vague; Juliet knew that tone. It meant Kate was doing anything but giving it a rest.

  “Well,” she said, “If you want me to help in any way…”

  “Thanks,” said Kate, “but no thanks. Look, there are your poncey friends. I’m off. See you tonight, Jools.”

  It had been Sarah who’d had the idea. She’d thought about the problem, and come up with something sensible. That was the whole thing about Sarah, Kate thought. She was a real friend, always there for you, and it had been her idea to advertise in the paper.

  “They all have these—what do you call them, yeah, personal ads. Why don’t you try that?”

  “What would I say?” Kate’s voice was doubtful.

  “Something like ‘If you abandoned a baby at Heathrow airport in August 1986 get in touch with me, your daughter.’”

  “What? And give my mobile number?”

  “No! They have these box numbers; people write in. You might get some nuts calling up otherwise. You have to be careful, Kate. Lot of funny people out there.”

  She’d composed her ad very carefully. “Please help,” it said. “I’m looking for my mother. She left me at Heathrow airport in August 1986, and I really want to find her.”

  The next decision was which paper. Her mother might live anywhere from Land’s End to John O’Groats, so it would have to be one of the nationals. Her parents took the Guardian and might see it; none of the papers she liked seemed to have such columns. So it was The Times or the Telegraph. She had bought a copy of each and studied them; she couldn’t imagine that anyone who had been her mother and done what she had would read papers like them—but of course she didn’t know that.

  Her mother might be young—well, not so young now, about thirty-something—or she might be much older. She might be married and she might not, she might be married to Kate’s father and she might be married to someone else; she might have other children. That hurt more than anything, the thought that other children were with her mother, being loved and looked after by her and going shopping with her and being cooked nice food by her, knowing she was their mother, knowing where they belonged, but having no idea a
t all that they had a sister who could claim a place in their family, who had every right to it, more than them, actually, since she had been there first.

  She had never forgotten the moment when she had first seen her birth certificate. She was ten, just beginning to find that it all really mattered, and she had stood there, staring at it, reading the words “Mother: unknown, Father: unknown,” feeling more alone than she could ever imagine, alone and absolutely uprooted, torn out of the ground and flung down like a weed. Even in the morning she had woken up with a pain in her heart that she could actually feel, physically. And all she had wanted, ever since, was just to know who her mother was, and why she had done what she had.

  Sarah’s idea hadn’t worked. She had called The Times and given them the wording—it had been so hard that, hearing her voice saying: “Please help, I’m looking for my mother,” but it seemed to be going all right, and then the woman had said did she know their terms? Eleven pounds a line, plus VAT. Which came to nearly sixty pounds. Sixty! It might as well be six hundred.

  Shaking, Kate rang off. Sixty quid! How was she going to get that? If only she had a Saturday job, like Sarah. Then she could earn it. She felt her eyes suddenly blurring. Whichever way she went, her path was blocked. There seemed some conspiracy to keep her from ever finding her mother.

  They were sitting in a history lesson, when Sarah suddenly turned round, her face radiant.

  “Kate!” she hissed. “What about the Web?” Kate frowned, her face a question mark. “You know, the Web. The Internet. Thought of looking there?”

  It was actually a good idea. She would go to the library after school and see what the Web had to offer.

  She typed in “missing persons” and waited; a long, long list of organisations came up on the screen: “People Found,” “Missing Persons Throughout the World,” “Find Anyone.”

  Sarah was a genius. Why hadn’t she thought of this before?

  She went for “Find Anyone.”

  “Lost persons for $7.95 instantly,” it said.

  Her heart started to thud: $7.95 for your mother. Not bad.

  Half an hour later, she left the library, filled with rage. At herself, this time. She’d been really, really dumb—again. Whatever had made her think she was going to find anything this way? It was the old problem: she didn’t know enough even to start. Every site said things like “All you need is a first and last name,” or “If you only have a name to go on, click here for more options.” One organisation told her that if she searched by name only, she would get too many matches. Too many! How about one?

  “Good luck,” it said, “and enjoy your reunion with that special someone.”

  If only. She went home, angrier than ever.

  After a while, she stopped being angry and felt the old misery and loneliness descend on her instead. It was all very well, her parents telling her how much they loved her, and Juliet saying she did, too; the fact remained that her mother, the person who had given birth to her, had thrown her aside, as casually as if she was a skirt she didn’t like, just walked away from her and never came back. Not even to check she was all right.

  Of course the woman would at least know she’d been found; she would have read the papers. And maybe that was enough for her. She didn’t want to know if her daughter was well, or happy, or who was looking after her, or what she was like as she began to get a bit older. She had just—wiped her out. The more Kate thought about it, the worse she felt: that the person who should love her most in the world, who should care about her the most, had absolutely no interest in her at all. It was a horrible, hideous thought. It made her feel worthless. If your own mother couldn’t be bothered with you, for God’s sake, why should anyone else?

  Of course, her mother might be going round too, looking at girls of about fifteen or sixteen, wondering if they were her daughter. She wouldn’t know where to start, either. Only at least she could try the adoption agencies; she could try the missing persons lines and Web sites herself. It wouldn’t be nearly so difficult for her, they wouldn’t keep telling her she wasn’t legally of an age to make such enquiries, or demanding impossible sums of money to advertise in the paper. She could do it easily if she wanted to.

  The simple fact was that she didn’t. She just didn’t want to know. Bitch! Horrible, hideous, selfish cow. One thing Kate was quite certain of: if she did ever find her mother now, she would hate her. Absolutely hate her. And make very sure she knew it, too.

  Chapter 7

  Just as (or so some say) the real action in the House of Commons is not found in the debating chamber but in the committee rooms, corridors, and tearooms, the real business at the party political conferences is conducted not in the conference hall and on the platform but in the bars or at the myriad fringe meetings that take place all day. Rather thinly disguised as discussion groups, sponsored by high-profile but not disinterested associations, the movers and shakers of the parties and those keen to lobby them move from hotel to hotel, hall to hall, from breakfast time until quite late at night, airing and sharing their views with both the press and any interested members of the constituency parties.

  There is also a lot of sex; the adrenaline-charged atmosphere, the power and intrigue on display, and the heady freedom from day-to-day restraints is, as Nick Marshall once wrote, more powerful than an ocean full of oysters. Many a worthy afternoon speech is missed for a little apolitical activity in a hotel room. Indeed, it is said that if you can remember too much about any party conference, you have missed the best of it.

  That autumn at the Tory Party conference in Blackpool, a very large and glitzy fringe meeting had been held. On the penultimate evening, funded by Gideon Keeble, the billionaire retailer, it had addressed the question of the nanny state and its sinister and growing power over the family. Speakers had included the charismatic and much televised Lord Collins, professor in child psychiatry at Cambridge; TV agony aunt Victoria Raynsford; and Janet Frean, who, as well as being a prominent Tory MP, had the relevant distinction of having five children. Chad Lawrence had also attended and spoken passionately at the debate that followed. The meeting had been packed with the party faithful and it had scooped up most of the next day’s best headlines.

  “And people have been congratulating Janet ever since,” Nick had said to Jocasta over breakfast. “It would appear she has Keeble onside. Very influential man, is our Gideon. Influential and rich. Exactly what’s needed for the new party.”

  “It’s going to happen, is it?”

  “Think so. It’s all looking very exciting.”

  Jocasta, who was nursing an appalling hangover, found it hard to care.

  Nick grinned at her. “You do look—tired. I’ve got to go. What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going back to bed.” She kissed Nick goodbye rather feebly and sat sipping coffee and flicking through the pile of newspapers he had left behind. She felt terribly sick; maybe she should get back upstairs.

  As she got into the lift, a girl stepped out; she was wearing an almost nonexistent dress, some very smudged makeup, and her conference pass round her neck. She had obviously had a very good night.

  Jocasta found Nick at lunchtime at a café near the press office; it had been, he said, a morning of dazzling dullness. “You should have stayed with me,” she said, picking at a rather tired sandwich.

  “If only I could have done. I must say, my mind strayed towards you repeatedly while they all wittered on. I’ve just got to file one last piece and I’ll come and find you when I’m done.”

  “What? Nick, I’ve been waiting for you all day!”

  “Look, sweetie, I told you not to stay today. I told you it would be boring. You enjoyed the party last night. Until you flaked out on the floor, that is.”

  “I did not flake out on the floor! I tripped on my new heels. Can’t I come to the press room with you?”

  “You can, but you won’t find anyone to talk to. Everyone’s either doing their wrap-up jobs, or watching the final
session and singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory.’”

  Jocasta shuddered. “I’ll come.”

  She followed him into the press room, with its rows of desks equipped not only with computers and phones but with TV screens giving constant access to what was going on in the conference hall. She fetched a carton of coffee. God, it was disgusting; it tasted as if they had used the same grains over and over again since Sunday. Nick was already gazing intently at the screen, absolutely lost to her. Jocasta sighed. He was treating her like the little woman, told not to bother her pretty head with difficult stuff like politics, when by his own admission she’d given him at least two ideas for pieces this week. She decided to go for a walk.

  She wandered round the near-desolate area leading into the main conference hall. God, she felt terrible; the Sketch had given a party the night before and she’d got incredibly drunk and ended up dancing simultaneously with a reporter from the Sun, a cameraman from Channel 4, and someone from the Today programme. She’d hoped Nick might see her and be jealous, but every time she looked for him he was huddled with a lot of dreary-looking men—well, they looked dreary from where she was. When she’d finally fallen—or rather tripped—one of them had come over with Nick to help her up and sit her down at the table. He had been, she seemed to remember, quite tasty, in a middle-aged sort of way; he asked her if she was all right and then smiled at her and moved away to another group. God, how embarrassing. She really must stop drinking so much. She—

  “Feeling better today?”

  The voice—and the smile—swam rather hazily into her consciousness. It was Chad Lawrence. Who’d made a rather good speech, she thought.

  “Yes. Yes, thank you. I’m fine,” she said briskly.

  “Good. That was a nasty purler you took. I was afraid you might be a bit bruised this morning.”

  She looked at him helplessly. “Was it you who—who helped me up?”

  “No, that was Gideon Keeble.”

  “What, as in Gideon Keeble, the Billionaire Retailing Tycoon?”