The Image in the Water

by Douglas Hurd

  Joan Freetown read this text standing up beside her desk in the Royal Suite. Up to now she had had a good day. She had intimidated the Japanese chairman of the IMF meeting by threatening to walk out if there was any discussion of any proposal to replace the British, French and German seats on the board with a single European seat. She had told the French that she would veto any French candidate for such a seat who might put his head above the parapet. She had no right to bully the Japanese and no veto to scupper the French, but in her career Joan Freetown had often found that the confident assertion of a right you did not possess was almost as good as acquiring it.

  All the more vexing, therefore, to find this setback at home.

  ‘Rather well written,’ said Guy, ‘in a traditional sort of style.’ He, too, had spent a happy day, visiting temples and gardens in the company of an old Japanese business friend. He was entirely relaxed, wearing a rather too heavy suit that had seen faithful service in the Cotswolds.

  ‘Nonsense, it’s rubbish from beginning to end. A total meaningless rant. We all know the press at home is destructive. But what’s that got to do with the leadership contest? Let me ring Peter Makewell at once before he makes an ass of himself.’

  ‘Why don’t you ring David Alcester first, to check the facts and get the background?’

  This was unusual: Guy hardly ever spoke of David Alcester, as if by silence he could conjure the young man away from his place at Joan’s side as her political henchman.

  Joan was already dialling. ‘David?’

  ‘I was just going to ring you.’

  ‘What the hell is going on?’

  ‘You’ve heard, then. I warned you last night that—’

  ‘You said nothing about Peter Make well.’

  ‘I knew nothing about Peter Makewell. Redburn leaned on him hard. They’ve all gone mad over the press.’

  ‘So?’ A silence. ‘So? David, I’m asking you.’ Still silence. ‘David, I rely on you.’

  Joan sat down rather abruptly. Guy could imagine the young man wrestling with his calculations of his own self-interest, mixed with scraps of loyalty to Joan. Complicated men are not at their best, he thought, on complicated occasions. He had noticed and feared the note of attraction in his wife’s voice, not because David Alcester was capable of threatening his marriage or had any interest in trying but because he knew from the past that when Joan became fond of young men she tended to follow their advice even when, or particularly when, it was bad. He held his breath, so that David could not know he was listening on the extension on the sofa by the mini-bar.

  David Alcester spoke slowly as he turned a page in his own career. He decided to tell the truth. ‘The PM will get all Courtauld’s support and add maybe a dozen of his own. That should still leave you with a winning hand among the MPs, if you hold your own pledges. And once you have won with them you’d romp home in the constituencies. At least, that’s what I would have said two days ago, but I’m not sure of even that now. It sounds as if the constituency chairmen are whooping the Party up against the press more loudly than anyone. Anyway it all depends on your holding those pledges in the Commons, and I’m afraid you won’t. They’re shifting already. I’ve had three calls since breakfast …’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Suffling, Lerwick, Andrew Jones – all much the same, undying admiration for you, your turn will come, but this is rather a special occasion.’

  ‘Skunks.’

  ‘Indeed, Joan.’ A long pause. ‘I’ll stick by you if you decide to go on …’ This was said slowly. Guy sensed that it was a gamble. In having said this David Alcester had added weight to the advice that came next: ‘… but on balance you should pull out now and declare for Make well.’

  ‘You’re sure? I could fly back at once. You’re sure there’s no hope?’ Her hand clenched round the receiver and she pressed her lips tight together as she did during difficult moments in the House of Commons.

  ‘Quite sure, Joan.’

  ‘Thank you, David.’ The conversation ended. She turned furiously on Guy. ‘How did you know what David Alcester would say?’

  ‘I had no idea. I just knew you would want his advice.’

  ‘You didn’t talk to him before I came back?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘What would you have done if he had said I should fight on?’

  ‘I should have persuaded you otherwise.’

  ‘Tried to persuade me.’

  Guy suppressed a smile. He knew he would have won. He would have played the highest card of all: their marriage. Because he had only played that card once or perhaps twice in thirty years it had never looked like failing.

  Joan went to her husband and kissed him. The tears of anger in her eyes were replaced by others. As she kissed him he held her tight. Her black hair with the silver streak was soft against his shoulder.

  Later they slipped out of the back door of the hotel, dodging the two Japanese protection officers. Guy knew of a tiny restaurant nearby, with just eight stools against a curved bar. The proprietor boasted that a famous wrestler had once eaten five hundred shrimps in quick succession at that bar. The shrimps came sizzling, small, tasty, expensive. Warm sake and the sense of refinding companionship turned the evening into a success.

  ‘You don’t mind my using David Alcester like this?’ she asked, on the way back to the hotel.

  ‘Provided you use him rather than let him use you. And provided he gives you the right advice.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘Usually not. Tonight yes.’

  She kissed her husband again in the hotel foyer as they waited to go up to bed.

  As in many Japanese institutions the modern lift was manned, quite unnecessarily, by a pretty girl in geisha costume. She was shocked into giggles by this public embrace of elderly Europeans.

  Chapter 5

  Two Years Later

  ‘You’re the only person I can say it to. We’re not going to win.’

  Before replying Louise placed the Prime Minister’s early-morning cup of tea alongside the Conservative election manifesto on his bedside table. ‘Of course we’re not going to win. The odd thing is, you don’t seem to care.’

  ‘You don’t find that odd at all.’

  Peter Make well sipped as his wife rejoined him in bed. But in truth she did find it odd. Newspapers were constantly asking Louise to write articles on the only woman in history to have married two prime ministers in succession. She always refused, but after two years the differences and the similarities were clear in her mind. She had never made morning tea for Simon Russell because he used to make it for her. She would not have joined in political conversation with him, except when provoked by rage, for in those days she had regarded politics as a destructive force that must be prevented from occupying all her husband’s life. Now, three years later, everything seemed quieter, less intense, less important.

  Marriage, or at least marriage to Louise, encouraged Peter Makewell to clear his mind honestly on matters that would otherwise have stayed opaque.

  ‘I am doing my best to hold the Party together. Why? So that Labour don’t get too big a majority and both your husbands can go down in history as having done a reasonable job. Particularly the first, of course.’ He meant it. His respect for Simon Russell was one reason why she had married him.

  ‘Is that what you’re going to say at the Central Office press conference this morning?’

  ‘Of course not.’ He scrabbled for the speaking notes interleaved with the manifesto. ‘Our latest private indications from the constituencies show a marked swing away from Labour as the huge importance of the campaign issues sinks in. We are on course for a third successive election victory on Thursday week.’

  ‘That’s interesting.’ Louise was at her dressing-table now, organising her face. ‘What are those huge issues?’

  ‘Ask the Young Demon.’

  It was a dangerous suggestion. Louise was only recently reconciled to her daughter Julia’s deci
sion.

  The Young Demon was Julia’s partner David Alcester. They had lived together for nearly two years. By the vagaries of politics he was now Chancellor of the Exchequer. This had seemed extraordinary to begin with, but the shape and balance of the Conservative Party had made him the only viable successor to Joan Freetown. In accordance with British political tradition the loving couple lived next door to Peter and Louise Makewell at No. 11 Downing Street. The Young Demon, they supposed, relished the embarrassment this caused.

  ‘Where’s he off to today?’ asked Louise.

  ‘Scotland, I think. I thought of telling him he could stay the night at Craigarran. But I didn’t.’

  ‘Why is he always up there? Precious few marginals. He just seems to enrage them by telling them they can’t have more money than the rest of us.’

  ‘That’s his job as Chancellor of the Exchequer. It plays splendidly here in England. That’s why we’re gaining ground on Tyneside and in the North West. He’s on to something with his New England Movement.’

  ‘Politics,’ said Louise, as if the word was itself a verdict.

  ‘You made me do all this.’ The Prime Minister headed for the bathroom. She blew a kiss to his retreating back. ‘When it’s over, can we eat again at that steak house?’

  ‘It has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘You’ve enjoyed every minute.’

  ‘Why the hell are you going to Scotland again? You were there for a day last week, and the week before. General elections aren’t won in Scotland. And you hate the place.’

  ‘It’s staying with a certain couple in Perthshire that I hate.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mummy’s stopped asking us – she told me so.’

  Julia’s eyes followed David Alcester round the room as he quickly packed his overnight bag. Razor, pyjamas, excessively strong aftershave. He tended to gamble with timetables, and she knew he would have to be out of the house in ten minutes. He had been angry after their argument last night. Up to then they had followed what she called the Tangier rule, after the city where they had spent their first weekend together. Under the Tangier rule Julia and David made love after an argument and did not return to the subject for a week. But last night he had slept in the dressing room and this morning he spoke without looking at her.

  She noticed that he was packing all the clean shirts from the drawer, four at least. ‘When are you coming back?’

  He turned to face her for the first time that morning. ‘I don’t know. I’m in different cities every day between now and polling day. The Treasury work can follow me round. I’ve done my meetings and press conference in London. There’s no need to come back here till the election’s over.’

  ‘No need?’ Julia’s voice rose.

  David cut in. ‘And, as things stand, nothing much to draw me back.’

  Suddenly this became intolerable. She could not bear to let him drive away to Heathrow with this barrier of ice between them. She returned quickly to last night’s argument. ‘You only want me to marry you because it looks good politically.’

  Last night he had fiercely denied this. This morning he just looked at his watch. ‘I don’t have time to go into all that now. You turned me down last night. For, I think, the fourth time. I shall not ask again. We must both think what should happen next.’

  The ice was growing thicker by the second. He would leave her, perhaps for ever. The internal telephone rang. ‘Car here? Thank you. I’ll be down in a minute.’

  Of course she did not want to marry David. She wanted to sleep with him, even to have a baby by him. Both these things were possible nowadays without a wedding. Marriage was different, it meant a promise for life. And David was already married, to his politics. He wanted to commit bigamy. She knew that where politics were involved David made no distinction between truth and falsehood. Would he draw a line anywhere? Was there anything in his life that was not political? She had steadily refused so far to be drawn into that cage. After all, was she not Julia, famous as the Prime Minister’s daughter who had been noisy, flamboyant, a pain to her parents, Julia who danced all night with unsuitable men, Julia who was arrested for possessing cannabis, and later for demonstrating violently in Whitehall? Above all, she had been free. It had been part of that freedom to encourage David to make love to her on the sofa at home in Highgate. She had thought it was she who was making the capture. His lovemaking had improved greatly since then, but she still took the lead. Each time, momentarily after the climax, when his eyes closed and the fair hair flopped over his forehead, she felt in charge. But within minutes he was again the ringmaster. She could see the cage now; she knew exactly what was in store. It was acceptable for a rising young politician to live with a beautiful girl. It was exciting when that girl was the daughter of one prime minister and the step-daughter of another. It proved something significant about modern politics. But the show moved on, and when the next image was viewed on the screen, it must be of the same girl transformed into a sober and godly matron, on the arm of the new party leader. She would still be beautiful no doubt, but with a settled beauty compatible with tradition, the family, the Party Conference and a firm line against all forms of moral deviation. In short, the Chancellor of the Exchequer wanted to be Prime Minister, and this meant marrying his mistress.

  In the light of day Julia’s spirit revolted against entering the cage. But even so … David was still in the same room, but would soon be gone. The prospect was intolerable. His voice, his mind, his body, the thrust of him in bed, his habits good and bad, all the bits of him would disappear. Yet they were now part of her life. She could not cut herself in two.

  ‘Come here,’ she said.

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Come here, David. I’ll think about it.’

  He looked at her carefully, made a calculation, picked up his case, kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Think well,’ he said, and was gone.

  Clive Wilson was waiting in the car outside No. 11 Downing Street. David Alcester treated him as a private secretary rather than as a Member of Parliament of some standing.

  ‘Can you ring them in Edinburgh and tell them to cancel that first briefing session?’

  ‘Why’s that, David? We’ll be there in good time if we catch the ten o’clock shuttle.’

  ‘We’re going somewhere else first.’ Then, to the driver, ‘Do you know the Glebe Hospital in Roehampton? Past Barnes station and up Roehampton Lane.’

  ‘I know it, sir.’

  ‘Right, that’s the first call’

  ‘Joan Freetown?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Clive Wilson busied himself with the call to Edinburgh. He was content to be a man of exceptional usefulness and was well proven in the role. First to Peter Makewell during the Russian crisis, then as one of Roger Courtauld’s campaign team, and now attached to Alcester the rising star. Having no particular ideas of his own, he found no difficulty in giving faithful service to politicians occupying widely different philosophical positions. Each time he managed to shift his loyalty without doing himself fatal damage. He knew that he lacked the bite and the forcefulness to reach the top himself. He also lacked the gift of attracting the affection or respect of others. But, being shrewd and hardworking he traded these assets for a share of the action, for a place close to whatever was happening. That was why he was going with the Chancellor of the Exchequer to Scotland.

  ‘Have a look at this.’ David Alcester thrust at Wilson the final text of the speech he was to make that evening in Leith Town Hall.

  We have one last chance at this election to point out to the Scottish people the dangerous choice they have to make. One fact is for sure – we cannot go on as we are. We cannot any longer accept the twisted statistics by which the Scots accountants in Charlotte Square yearly justify the extraction of extravagant subsidy for Scotland from the British Exchequer. We cannot any longer allow the so-called Scottish Parliament to bog us down in endless petty arguments about what happens on which side of a border that s
hould long ago have been relegated to the history books. Above all, we cannot continue to receive at Westminster an excessive number of Scottish MPs. Too many Scottish Members represent mountains and sheep rather than human electors. It is no longer acceptable that these invading Scots should vote on English matters at Westminster, when we English MPs cannot vote on the equivalent Scots matters. Devolution, ladies and gentlemen, has become delirium. Cold water is needed. Either the Scots must accept fair play within the United Kingdom, a kingdom four-fifths of whose inhabitants happen to be English, or – sadly indeed but firmly – we should say that if the Scots want to rule their own affairs then they should do so plainly and openly, bearing the cost of separation, shouldering their own burden without English subsidy or special benevolence, competing with other foreigners for English investment. The choice is theirs; we ask simply that it be made quickly, and without the blather which has marked Scottish discourse at the Holyrood Parliament over these last years.

  ‘Good stuff,’ said Clive Wilson, a hesitant note in his voice.

  ‘But?’

  ‘The audience won’t like it. The Scots Tories try to dodge the main question. You’re rubbing their noses in it.’

  ‘It is not meant for the audience in Leith Town Hall. It’s meant for these people.’ David waved to shoppers in Kensington High Street. ‘Even more for the North of England, the old enemies of Scotland. They’ve got to be woken up.’

  Clive Wilson took courage.

  ‘Tell me, David, you’ve got the two main Alcester themes – against the EU and against the Scots – both running pretty well. Which is the more important to you?’

  ‘The Scots, of course.’ Alcester paused, unused to sharing anything approaching a confidence. ‘Europe is always with us as a punch-bag. There will always be foolish decisions and bizarre speeches out of Brussels for us to grumble at. But there’s a limit. Most people know that it makes no sense to ditch the euro or leave the EU. It’s settled now. But nothing is settled about Scotland. There’s room for a real upheaval there.’