The Image in the Water

by Douglas Hurd

  ‘I’m sorry, Peter, I’m really sorry, but it won’t do,’ she repeated, as soon as he reached her. He withdrew his plan for a light kiss on the cheek. By now the whole world seemed to be looking at them. Damn.

  ‘It’s that young man.’ She did not actually point, but nodded to a table adjoining the empty white triangle. ‘I’ll explain later, but I’m afraid I can’t sit as close as that to David Alcester.’

  Peter Makewell had not recognised Alcester from the back, but now he turned his head towards them. Sweep of fair hair too low across the forehead, orthodox English face of the charming variety, now lit with genuine surprise turning to insincere welcome. He was entertaining, or more likely being entertained by, a lady journalist from the Daily Mail gossip column.

  ‘This is a pleasant surprise. Come and join us,’ said Alcester, getting up and moving to join Louise and the Prime Minister in the centre of the restaurant. His legs were rather too short for his torso, which already carried a few pounds of excess weight. Even at this early stage of his political career he preferred to be photographed behind a desk or cross-legged in a chair. He spoke as if he were host in charge of the entire restaurant. But he was addressing a void. Louise had already bustled the Prime Minister and the two protection officers out into the street. A cold drizzle had set in, which matched Peter Makewell’s gloom. A well-prepared evening was collapsing in ruins. He silently cursed his protection officers for not having investigated the other diners at Il Gran Paradiso. Unfairly, since they were not employed as his political or social chaperons. Where to go now? It would be tactless to take Louise back to No. 10 only weeks after she had left it, and anyway that would mean rushed scrambled eggs from an indignant housekeeper. The Savoy, he supposed, though …

  But Louise took control. ‘I know the steak house at the top of the street. The manager worked for Government Hospitality long ago.’

  Within minutes they were seated round a scarlet plastic tablecloth drinking the steak house Rioja, and contemplating a menu that consisted entirely of different weights (eight, twelve and sixteen ounces) of rump, sirloin or fillet of beef. Every helping was supplied automatically with chips.

  ‘Just the place,’ said Louise. ‘The young love it.’

  Not at all the place for Peter Makewell, who was not young. He examined the pop stars on the walls, trying to regain calm. He was uneasy because there was no table free for the two protection officers – they had been forced to retreat into the March drizzle. He had thought of asking them to share the table with Louise and himself, but that was not compatible with the style of the occasion and in any case she might object. And having been a protected person only for these few weeks, he still felt awkward with his protectors, particularly at the thought of upsetting them.

  ‘He wasn’t wearing his trousers, that was the point,’ said Louise, examining the menu.

  Peter Makewell, thinking of protection officers, was baffled, as she no doubt intended.

  ‘That young man. His name is Alcester. He’s an MP, you ought to know him. I do not think he has actually seduced Julia, but when I came home early from the studio he was about to try. This was ten days ago. Bad legs, too, podgy.’

  Peter Makewell remained baffled. He was childless.

  ‘It played like an old-fashioned farce. I was shouting. He must get out and never come to Highgate again. He had trouble with the zip of his trousers. I think I’ll have eight ounces of fillet. He was in such a hurry, he left in his socks. He thought I was going to hit him. I still have the shoes. Cheaper than they look from a distance.’

  ‘And Julia?’ This was not at all as he had expected or wanted, but he had to follow along her track.

  ‘She was giggling at the other end of the sofa. She had all her clothes on. Whether she was laughing at him or at me I couldn’t tell. Probably both. After he had gone, she clapped for a couple of seconds, she said, “Oh, Mummy,” kissed me, and went up to bed as if nothing had happened. Since then I’ve asked no questions. I might get bad answers. I don’t think she’s seen him since. Girls don’t like men they’ve seen in ridiculous positions, particularly if they helped them get there.’

  Louise paused, and for the first time he could look at her properly. The simple dark grey dress without jewellery contrasted with the flamboyance of her dark auburn hair and heavy makeup. He did not know her well enough to be sure if the simplicity of dress resulted from natural taste or recent widowhood. In either case it was right for the steak-house, while he felt pompously overdressed. He undid the jacket buttons of his dark blue suit.

  Louise continued to talk to him as if he were an old friend.

  ‘I miss Simon, you know, but for the little things mainly: the cup of tea he brought me in the morning, the way he remembered my birthday three days late. Why not for the big things? I often ask myself that. We had a long life together full of travel, crises, grand occasions, big hotels, country cottages, talk and love. It was a long good chapter, and it came to a natural close. There was not much more to be said or done.’

  ‘But you are still young, and …’

  But ‘beautiful’ could not come out. The harsh house Rioja was carrying him some distance but not that far.

  ‘Now there is just an unexciting epilogue, a dim page or two to wrap things up. A trip to my studio every day, perhaps even an exhibition of sculptures next year, a few parties, an occasional photograph in the glossies, gradually more days in our Somerset cottage, the horizon comfortably narrowing down to the village fête and work on kneelers for the church … or could there be a whole new chapter?’

  ‘A new chapter, surely.’ This was more than gallantry.

  ‘But the new chapter would be called Julia. I begin to think that’s a book of its own, her book and not mine.’ She paused. ‘Physically speaking, Julia lives in Highgate. She sleeps there most nights, and manages a good breakfast. But since Simon died her real life’s elsewhere, and I’m not part of it any more. I provide the washing machine and the scrambled eggs, with toast.’

  The steaks arrived, with seven different kinds of mustard on a tray. In his bath an hour ago Peter Makewell had imagined a conversation that started with the trustees’ proposals for Chequers and moved, slowly – say, over the coffee – to more personal matters. He was inadequate to cope with this reversal of the natural order.

  Unexpectedly Louise guided him on to his own track. ‘Tell me, why did you ask me to this delicious dinner?’

  He had to admit that his fillet steak was worthy, though not to be compared with the creamy risotto he would have been eating in Il Gran Paradiso had David Alcester kept his trousers on. ‘You may remember that the Chequers trustees have a scheme—’

  She laughed, having taken two full glasses of the Rioja. ‘Prime Minister, Prime Minister, what are you saying? A new rose garden in exchange for a medium-rare steak? You’d be getting a bargain.’

  He could only plough on. ‘I was told that you had objected – or, rather, that Simon had objected on your behalf.’

  ‘Objected, objected … of course I objected. But I objected to the trustees, not the scheme. They’re a dreary lot of bankers and lawyers pretending to understand gardens, trees and the countryside. It was my duty to twist their tails.’

  ‘Then as regards the scheme …’

  ‘I’ve no objection at all. Norma Major deserves a statue – she did an excellent job with that book of hers. And that wilderness of dull red roses certainly needs breaking up. Tell the trustees I fought like a tiger, called them all sorts of evil names, but by sheer charm you won me over.’

  ‘You’re laughing at me.’

  ‘Certainly. Prime ministers are there to be teased. Do you like Chequers?’

  ‘To be honest, no. I hardly go there.’

  ‘But you can’t go back to Perthshire every weekend. And Downing Street is hardly … But, I forgot, you’re still Foreign Secretary, you still have Chevening.’

  Yes, indeed – Chevening, elegant Queen Anne brick, soft in the light
of a summer evening, or bright with the hillside frosty white on a Boxing Day morning, his study looking over the lake and a crowd of geese promenading like ambassadors on the lawn. Since his wife had died Chevening had gained over Perthshire in his affection. By comparison Chequers was dark, cluttered, dull and oversupplied with history.

  ‘Do you enjoy being Prime Minister?’

  There was a connection between the houses and the jobs that went with them, but it was a bit too abrupt for Peter’s taste. ‘Not at all. The work is hard, endless and often uncongenial. I can’t think how Simon put up with it for so long.’

  ‘He loved it. It became his life. He went on for too many years, but you’ve only just begun. You ought to stay.’

  ‘Stay? What do you mean? I only took it on as a—’

  ‘A caretaker? Yes. But sometimes the caretaker inherits the house. You’d be better than either lazy Roger Courtauld or that shrill Chancellor of yours.’

  Obviously Louise did not bother with news bulletins, or indeed newspapers. He told her of Roger’s withdrawal from the leadership contest.

  ‘Well, even more so … What are people like me to do faced with Joan Freetown?’ Her voice softened. ‘She was good to us, very good to Julia and me, when Simon died in her spare bedroom – but that’s different from welcoming her as Prime Minister. You should stand. You’ve no good reason not to.’

  ‘You’re the second person today to say that.’

  ‘Who was the first?’ She was surprised. Later, much later, she told him that up to that point she had been merely teasing him.

  ‘Martin Redburn.’ And, contrary to his clear resolution at bathtime, he told her of his morning meeting.

  The story changed her mood to serious. ‘You must take it,’ she said.

  He expostulated, over the crème brûlé, which was leathery, then over the double espresso coffee, but he could not shake her. Nor, he assured himself, could she shake him. He wrote a cheque for the dinner because the steak house would not accept a credit card even from a prime minister. By now just about everyone in the restaurant had recognised them and was staring, some openly, others pretending not to.

  ‘I’d like to go back to not being recognised,’ he said to Louise, helping her on with her coat, trying to wrap up the argument. ‘But I expect most of them are looking at you.’

  ‘Don’t deceive yourself. You’re talking as you might have talked ten years ago, when we first met. I’d have believed your modesty then, but it rings false now. Like Simon you’re hooked on the work and you relish the publicity, though you keep that last a close secret even from yourself.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ but he was pleased. The car dropped him in Downing Street before taking her north to Highgate. This time there was no plan, but he kissed her, lightly, on just one cheek.

  ‘Nonsense,’ he said again to himself, very pleasantly, as he waited for the lift inside No. 10. ‘Nonsense,’ again, as he climbed into bed.

  Guy Freetown had left the hotel in Tokyo to walk round the Imperial Moat, which he said would take him an hour. Joan was thus free to dance a jig in front of the largest mirror of the Royal Suite. None of the friends and allies of the harsh, handsome, humourless Chancellor of the Exchequer would for one minute have thought her capable of such a silly gesture. Guy would have remembered it from the happy days of their early marriage, but even he would have been amazed to find it still in his wife’s repertoire.

  But then the news from London was amazing, fantastic, absurdly splendid. The flood of press cuttings had just stopped flowing from the fax machine. Joan had stacked them neatly on the ornate little desk alongside; even in triumph she was neat.

  HAND IN HAND ON BEACH – ROGER QUITS

  HOME SECRETARY QUITS BUT – ‘I WAS NEVER GAY’

  GAY PHOTO CLINCHES JOAN’S TRIUMPH

  NOW IT MUST BE JOAN

  It had been hard to decide whether to come to Tokyo for the board meeting of the International Monetary Fund. David Alcester, as her campaign manager, had been against it. She should stay at home, he thought, chat in the Commons’ tea room, smile at wobbly backbenchers, give another interview to the Evening Standard, appear yet again on Newsnight. But David, though brilliant and utterly loyal, knew only the partisan part of Joan’s life. She might be running for the Tory leadership, but she was still in charge of Britain’s finances. This IMF meeting was not routine. The European Commission was angling to replace Britain and France on the board of the fund with a single European representative. The French had been staunch up to now, but it was rumoured that they might change if a Frenchman were chosen to represent Europe. There would be a tussle, mostly behind the scenes, and Joan must be at the heart of it. Guy had been clear that she should stick to her commitment.

  ‘How will it look,’ she had asked David Alcester, just before she left for the airport, ‘if I stay at home chasing votes and there’s an ambush in Tokyo and we lose our seat?’

  David, sitting on the sofa in the Treasury, had chewed his handkerchief and looked cross. He had not yet learned a gracious way of admitting that he was wrong. This was an art of which Joan was ignorant herself, but which she valued in others.

  ROGER’S BEACH SHAME

  THE HOLIDAY SNAP WENT WRONG

  ‘YES, I GUESSED’ SAYS ROGER’S EX

  THERE WAS ALWAYS SOMETHING ODD ABOUT HIS KISSES

  Joan disliked these secondary headlines. She had no time for Roger Courtauld, grudging the success that, up to yesterday, he had achieved with so little apparent effort. Certainly she would much rather have beaten him in a fair fight without the benefit of the beach photograph. But the excitement was that she had won, she was going to be Prime Minister. Was it too early to ring David Alcester and get the latest feel? Nine hours’ difference, so it would be seven in the morning in London.

  The telephone rang; the bouncy voice did not wait for her greeting. ‘Marvellous press, Joan. I made sure they sent you all of it.’

  ‘Many thanks, David. For that and for everything. Are you still in bed?’ She brushed aside and quickly buried her wish to visualise David Alcester in bed.

  ‘No, just back from the gym in the basement. Twenty lengths in the Olympic pool. Joan, we need to seize the moment. I’ve rung Redburn already to say you think the uncertainty is damaging to everyone. Now Roger Courtauld’s out they should telescope the timetable, and get you elected within a couple of days.’

  The young man took too much on himself, but Joan forgave him since the cause was so good.

  ‘What did Sir Martin say?’

  ‘Hummed and hawed, said, not easy, he’d think about it.’

  ‘Any sign of another candidate?’

  ‘None, though he said he’d have to leave a day or two in case one came forward. But it would only be a maverick.’

  ‘You’re sure, David?’ There had been something in his tone that suggested he was reassuring himself.

  A moment’s silence.

  ‘David, you must tell me if there’s anything on your mind. There must be no secrets between us.’

  ‘It’s just something Redburn said. And it’s confirmed in the Telegraph, page two, I think. He said a good many people were cross with the press. Didn’t like the photograph ploy. Didn’t think Roger should have given in to it.’

  ‘But I had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Everyone knows that. Redburn said it himself. You’re in the clear.’

  ‘The danger is that these people will get at Roger Courtauld this morning and that the foolish man will change his mind and come back in.’

  ‘Yes, I agree that’s the danger.’

  But it wasn’t.

  Statement by Sir Martin Redburn on behalf of the Conservative 1922 Committee:

  Tuesday, 23 March

  In view of some erratic misreporting I have been authorised by the Committee to explain why I yesterday approached the Prime Minister, Sir Peter Makewell, on behalf of the Committee and invited him to enter the contest for the leadership of the Conservative P
arty. We did not take this exceptional action because we underrate the claim of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, Joan Freetown, to the leadership. On the contrary some of us would in normal circumstances have supported Joan Freetown in this contest. But the circumstances are not normal. The Thunder newspaper has attempted to destroy the candidature of the Home Secretary, Roger Courtauld, by a device that is at once obscene and absurd. Other newspapers have shared this tactic while appearing to condemn it, by giving extensive publicity to the story and to the insinuations that surround it. The growing unease with which most of us have for years regarded the sleazy influence of the press on British politics has come to a head. Others who have not hitherto shared this unease can now see its justification. The press claims to cleanse the body politic but in fact pollutes it. Self-regulation has failed. The time has come to protect the public from a growing evil

  The Conservative government under its new leadership will now need to put forward proposals for an effective law on privacy. We are familiar with the reasons why this measure, often condemned, has always in the past been shelved. Behind the excuses the underlying reason is lack of courage. When it came to the crunch, politicians of all parties have declined to challenge forces in the media that might cripple or destroy them. There should be a much more stringent measure preventing the abuse of ownership of newspapers, television and radio. The government should abandon its plans for a more generous Freedom of Information Bill. The clamour for greater freedom of information masks the greed of the media for greater power. But they are not elected by the people and have no right to speak on behalf of the people. The culture of sleaze in the British media is now more damaging to the public than any culture of secrecy in Whitehall.

  Meanwhile there is a case for emphatic public protest. We endorse the suggestion that on every Wednesday for the next six weeks, beginning tomorrow 24 March, individual citizens should refrain from buying any newspaper from any shop or news-stand.

  More immediately, we welcome the Prime Minister’s decision to accept our invitation to stand for the leadership. We believe that in the new situation he will receive overwhelming support from Members of Parliament and from our supporters in the constituencies, whatever their previous intentions. We believe that Peter Makewell can restore the unity of the Party and equip us to confront successfully the many challenges (including the challenge of the media) which confront us.