One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  Dominic would either stop and take two minutes to chat and reassure, or excuse himself politely on the grounds that he was in a tearing hurry, which he always was, but the eyes that followed seemed to say – does he know? Is he letting me down gently?

  He was both respected and feared, and, as the right-hand girl I was rapidly becoming, I felt some of that powerful dust settle on me. I’d be sounded out by other secretaries, sometimes even MPs, who invited me for coffee, lunch in the Commons dining room. I wish I could say I was impervious to it, that it rolled off my back, but I loved it. I was twenty-three, barely out of university, and some of the most important and influential men and women in the country were courting me, canvassing my opinion. My head was not so much turned as spinning.

  On the morning the reshuffle was due to be announced, the News at Ten journalist whom I’d recognized on day one, stopped me in the lobby.

  ‘Any news, Hattie?’

  ‘None whatsoever,’ I muttered, hurrying on.

  ‘Come on, poppet, be a sport. Any inkling?’

  But I was on my way; my overriding concern to make sure Dominic was all right. We’d worked late the previous night, and he’d confided to me that, contrary to popular opinion, he barely knew about any cabinet positions: had had a meeting with the PM that morning and attempted to delve, but the shutters had come down and he’d been told nothing. I’d never seen him so rattled.

  ‘Surely if my job was secure I’d be tipped the wink by now?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I’d consoled. ‘He knows everyone badgers you for information. He might be protecting you.’

  He’d regarded me suspiciously. ‘No one protects anyone in this place, Hattie. You have to watch your back at every turn. It’s every man for himself.’

  Later that morning, one by one, the cabinet were called in. Dominic later said that the walk he took from Portcullis House, across the road, past Big Ben, and through the main gates opposite Westminster Abbey was one of the longest of his life.

  Katya was in that day – oh, you bet, bent double, face racked with pain, but she was there. The two of us waited, each at our post, our computers, chatting nervously at first, and then, as the morning wore on with no word, turning to our screens for solace, typing silently, mechanically. This, surely, was bad news. A lengthy interview meant there was a lot of explaining to do on the part of the PM. A lot of thanks for all the hard work, effort, etc., followed by a pained, grave expression as he let the bad news sink in. Katya and I tapped and tapped, grim-faced. The phones were quiet. That was unusual too. Normally they never stopped and we were run off our feet answering them. Had other MPs heard something we hadn’t? Was Dominic no longer the man to call, the man in the know?

  The night before he’d confided to me that the post he hankered for, the one he lay in bed at night and fantasized about, Education Secretary, had gone, he thought. Not for sure, but the whisper was Tim Atkinson, from Environment.

  At ten past twelve the door flew open. Katya and I spun round in our seats. Dominic stood in the doorway, eyes shining.

  ‘Foreign Secretary,’ he breathed.

  ‘Oh!’ We sprang to our feet, dumbfounded.

  In a moment he’d crossed the room, taken me in his arms and twirled me around. Then he put me down and hugged Katya. We were all ecstatic now, and as we shrieked and jumped up and down and congratulated him, suddenly the room hummed again. Ken, the permanent undersecretary, appeared, beaming, phones rang as members called in their congratulations, doors opened and shut like a French farce as people flew in from all corners. Champagne was found – someone had belted to the off-licence – and Dominic, in the midst, like a tall blond lion, handsome face shining, genuinely baffled as well as delighted, was looking like a little boy, although now of course, a hugely important, influential man. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And now and again, as he turned to accept congratulations, wring hands, I knew those eyes came back to me.

  The day passed in a blur. Journalists rang constantly, wanting quotes: at thirty-four Dominic was the youngest Foreign Secretary, it transpired, that century. Even Anthony Eden in Chamberlain’s government in 1935 had been a ripe old thirty-seven when he achieved the same high office. Again and again Dominic went out to Parliament Square to speak to banks of cameras, news crews from all over the country, as we, his department, watched from the windows above.

  Other results came in: some good, some bad. His great friend Peter Ward, a kind, intellectual man, had lost his job at Transport. He’d been shuttled to the back benches. Whilst Sally Turner, her of the sexy black suits, bright red lipstick and patterned tights, had a meteoric rise to Health. Health! We all giggled, high on champagne.

  ‘Hope she doesn’t give them anything,’ remarked Katya tartly. ‘Who knows where she’s been.’

  Katya was thrilled, but brisk with me, snapping out orders and I knew why. She’d watched as her boss of six years had crossed the room to hug me first, to sweep me up in his arms before her: her smile was broad but her eyes were like flints as she made sure I was edged out of any limelight that might be shining round our office. I typed away guiltily.

  At close of play, yet another journalist rang, wanting a few words with Dominic for an evening chat show. But Dominic, by Katya’s desk, was on another line and shook his head, frowning. He put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘Katya, pop down, would you, and say a few platitudes on my behalf? Or send Hattie, if your back’s not great?’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Katya quickly, getting up not so smoothly and hobbling to the door. ‘I’ll say you’re extremely honoured and looking forward to the tremendous challenge the job offers, shall I?’

  ‘Splendid. If you would. You are marvellous, Katya.’

  But she went out wordlessly, the damage having been done. Dominic was oblivious, though, and then, as Katya left, her phone rang and I found myself talking to our new counterpart office in America.

  ‘It’s Warren Christopher,’ I breathed, ‘wanting to congratulate you. D’you want me to… ?’ I pointed to his office, indicating I’d put it through in there, but instead, he just took the phone from my hand and perched on the desk.

  I listened as he thanked and smiled, got up and walked around, swept back his hair, his colour high, walked around my room, and then into his room. At the door, still talking, he looked back and jerked his head at me. I frowned. He jerked it again, meaning for me to follow him.

  Smiling and shaking my head, bemused, I did as I was told, shutting the door behind me. I hovered in the booklined room as he thanked the American some more, still beaming, still pacing circles, still sweeping back his hair.

  I walked to the window and gazed out, leaning the heels of my hands on the sill. A thunderstorm was gathering, and the light was fading fast, turning the sky violet over the ancient crenulated stone of Westminster. Down on the lawn I could see the camera crews, news teams from around the world, some beginning to pack up now, collapsing huge lenses: the remains of the day.

  ‘Thank you so much… Oh, I agree… I agree entirely, and rest assured I will do my utmost to preserve it, nothing will jeopardize it… be assured of that… Many thanks, how kind… and many thanks again for calling.’

  He put the phone down, an almost dazed look in his eye. An exhilarated one too. Then he walked to the door, locked it, came back and took both my hands in his.

  ‘He wanted to touch base with his opposite number.’ He reached up and pulled down the window blind behind me. I knew what was happening but felt powerless to stop it. ‘Wanted to assure me of his support, and be sure he could count on me.’ He took my face in his hands, steering me away from the window, leaning back on the light switch. As the room plunged into darkness, his lips found mine. He kissed me gently: once, twice.

  ‘Wanted to be sure of our special relationship. To preserve it at all costs.’ He was still kissing me gently, drawing me in closer. I felt my body melt into his.

  ‘Do you feel that special relationship, Hatt
ie?’ His eyes were trawling mine, as dark as the violet sky outside. ‘Do you feel it too?’ he whispered, almost pleading.

  ‘Yes,’ I breathed. ‘I do.’

  Our eyes locked then in silent communion and he took me in his arms and kissed me properly. I shut my eyes, felt my bones turn to liquid, my senses swim: saw only a blinding white light and heard a roaring rush in my ears. I’d never lost consciousness before, but it seemed to me this might be how it would feel: reeling first, then spiralling in slow motion down somewhere deep and precipitous to oblivion. It was certainly an impediment to thought.

  Down below, the traffic rumbled by; a distant soundtrack and a reminder of a world beyond this one, but muffled and indistinct.

  Another noise, this time much closer: footsteps – voices too – and then the light snapped on. As the room exploded into terrible clarity, Dominic and I sprang apart in its glare. Standing at the only other door to the office, the one rarely used and only accessed via the coffee room, so therefore only by a Commons secretary, was Katya. Her eyes were bright and darting, her face grim but triumphant. Just behind her, luminously pregnant in a black and white floral dress, matching patent heels and handbag, her hair done professionally in a coil, all ready for the cameras, was Letty.

  8

  I left my job immediately, of course; Katya saw to that. Had seen to it, in fact, that very evening as, hands shaking, I went through my desk drawers, gathered any possessions – books, magazines – eyes lowered. Dominic went after Letty, who’d stumbled away with a strangled sob, one hand to her mouth: but not before her eyes had found mine, wide, grey and shocked. After that, she’d turned and fled.

  Katya, of course, had stayed. Standing over me like an SS guard, seeing me off the premises.

  Meanwhile I’d gulped things like, ‘Can’t stay.’

  ‘No, quite. I can see that.’

  ‘So sorry… Can’t think why… so sorry. Explain why I’m going, would you? I can’t…’

  ‘Of course.’ Chilly.

  ‘But don’t say. Don’t tell them about…’

  ‘Of course not.’

  I knew she wouldn’t. Knew, if Dominic were to keep his job, which she wanted at all costs, she’d keep her mouth shut. It was her life, this place, and the blood shed in it flowed through her veins. I found my handbag and she escorted me to the door.

  ‘I can’t think what…’ I was muttering. ‘Don’t know what came over me.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ She could afford to be kind now. She’d never see me again. ‘Just go. I’ll talk to Personnel. Tell them it was to do with your family or something. And I’ll give you a reference.’

  ‘Will you?’

  ‘Of course.’ She made her face smile. ‘These things happen.’

  ‘You mean—’

  ‘Oh, no, never before. Never a hint of scandal. He’s a good man.’

  And I was a bad girl. Who’d instigated scandal. Trembling, I gathered my coat from the back of the door and departed. Would Hattie Carrington kindly leave the stage. Why? Why did I go, just like that? Years later, in retrospect, I’m not sure, but down the linoleum corridor I went, the one that had held so much promise, down the whispering elevator, and out into the night.

  After the air conditioning, the humid night air ambushed me, wrapped itself around me like so many menacing scarves. I weaved shakily across the road, feeling it on my cheeks, like hot accusatorial breath, through the heavy traffic without waiting for the lights to change, amid blaring horns and furious-faced drivers around the square. Churchill loomed, then Palmerston; more horns as I crossed the road again towards the backstreets of Pimlico.

  Laura was out when I got to the flat. There was a note on the kitchen table: ‘Hughie and I are in Pitcher and Piano if you and Dominic want to join us.’

  You and Dominic. You see, that was the problem. I’d let it become so. But he wasn’t mine. We weren’t a couple. And I knew Laura had worried, had tried to broach the subject more than once that we were perhaps too close, but I’d brushed her off, dismissed it. I wouldn’t admit to myself, let alone to others, that I… I caught my breath. Loved him.

  Despite my shame, despite his hugely pregnant wife in the doorway, the one who’d offered me hospitality, I knew this to be so. With the most burning certainty I’d ever felt about anything. And it was the first time. I’d got to the ripe old age of twenty-three without it. Had gone out with boys, but felt nothing like this. Nothing like the completely overwhelming sense of helplessness as he’d taken me in his arms in his office. In his office. How ghastly is that? How cheap? Yet to me, it seemed utterly romantic. And now, I’d never see him again. I’d lost my job, and I’d lost him too. The ramifications were hammered home, one by one, like nails in my head, delivered, it seemed to me, oddly not by Letty, but a contorted-faced Katya. I went to my bedroom and threw myself dramatically on my bed, still in my coat, pulled the pillow over my head, and burst into tears.

  At length, the phone went beside me. I turned over. Lay there a second listening, then picked it up. Could it be… ? No, of course not. It was Kit, ringing to wish Laura a happy birthday. Of course, Laura’s birthday. Which was why they’d gone out.

  ‘No, she’s not here, but I’ll tell her.’ I sat up with a struggle, wiping my face, trying to steady my voice. ‘How are you?’ I lowered the mouthpiece and exhaled heavily, turning damp eyes to the ceiling. ‘Having fun?’ I managed.

  ‘Fun?’

  I came to, remembering where he was. The steel in his voice went right through me.

  ‘Oh, Kit. Sorry, I—’

  ‘Fun?’ he repeated. ‘You have no idea.’ His voice was trembling. I could hear him trying to compose himself. I sat up and grabbed a tissue.

  ‘Kit?’

  ‘Oh, yes, great fun.’ Harsh words tumbled out. ‘The father of the family I’m staying with was killed yesterday, caught in crossfire on his way to hospital. A doctor. Snipers got him.’

  I caught my breath, shocked. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Three children.’

  ‘Oh, Kit. I’m so sorry,’ I whispered again, lamely.

  ‘That’s nothing. At least it was quick.’ His voice didn’t sound familiar. It seemed to be coming from somewhere thin and dark. I felt completely disorientated, bounced as I was, in a heartbeat, out of my own drama and into his. I couldn’t marshal my thoughts.

  ‘At least he didn’t know anything about it,’ Kit was saying. ‘Not like the ones who are rounded up every day. Boys, some of them, shitting themselves as they’re herded into lorries and taken away, and all in the name of ethnic cleansing.’

  My mind swam in a befuddled manner. I tried to grasp what he was saying.

  ‘Ethnic cleansing my arse – it’s genocide. I’m in Croatia, Hattie, not the fucking King’s Road.’

  ‘Yes, no, I – I forgot. No – didn’t forget, of course I didn’t, but—’ I swung my legs over the bed, massaged my temple hard, willing myself to think. To be there for him. But it was all such a world away. Such a very long way away. I forced myself to stay with him, to keep up, but my mind was a blur.

  ‘Kit, I – don’t know what to say,’ I said eventually, hopelessly. I didn’t. And then a considerable silence elapsed. ‘Are you going to stay?’ I ventured at length. Like he was at a sleepover.

  ‘Of course I’m going to stay!’ he almost screamed, making me leap. ‘Haven’t you seen the pictures?’

  I panicked. Pictures. Oh – yes, I had. Dimly. A while back. Shocking pictures of a camp. A couple of journalists had sent back photographs that looked as if they’d been taken in Auschwitz fifty years earlier.

  ‘Over four thousand people died in that place,’ Kit went on in a low, unsteady voice. ‘Tortured, beaten, whole villages wiped out. They just don’t exist any more, like – like Chipping Sodbury or somewhere, just disappearing.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kit. Forgive me. I am so very sorry.’

  I heard him breathing heavily on the other end. Trying to collect himself. I ap
ologized again. Inadequately. After a bit he calmed down. Muttered something. But I only caught, ‘OK, OK.’

  I tried to talk to him then, help him. But he was distant, quiet. I made myself jabber away about the family, Mum’s new car – bright yellow, would you believe. Laura’s modelling, humdrums, anything. And after a bit, I heard him sobbing quietly on the other end. I was terrified, but I let him cry, realizing perhaps I was the outlet he needed. The only place he could go. In my mind I was frantically wondering how to get him back. Dad should go out, of that I was convinced. Mum and I had talked about it, Laura too. But my father was strangely reticent on the subject.

  ‘Shouldn’t we go and get him?’ Laura and I had pleaded. ‘Shouldn’t we get him back?’

  ‘Not if he doesn’t want to come back,’ had been Dad’s measured response.

  Kit and I talked some more. I didn’t want him to go until I felt he was truly calm, but he couldn’t be calm, he said. Not really. Not any more. Never would be. Nothing would ever be the same again. And I couldn’t ease his pain.

  *

  If you’d told me an hour before that I’d go to bed that night thinking of anything other than myself, my own particular drama, I wouldn’t have believed you, but eventually I dozed off in some strange dusty country, a darkening land. Kit in khakis, in a tented encampment, similar to something I’d seen on M.A.S.H., was running with his hands on his head, past trucks emblazoned with red crosses, flinging himself to the ground as mortar shells dropped and exploded around him.

  Amazing how the ego thieves back in, though. Stealthily. Quietly. The following morning, although Kit was still on my mind, my own problems loomed large. The morning papers had moved on too. The Balkans war was still just on the front page, bottom right, two columns, but a young man of thirty-four had been appointed Foreign Secretary. The Mail led with that. My heart thudded as I picked it up off the doormat. A huge colour picture of him and his wife, she, heavily pregnant in a black and white dress, a golden couple. You’d have to look very closely to spot the strain around her eyes.