by Douglas Hurd
She paused, and he understood the elegant supper, the exceptional wine, the Indian tunic. But this conversation had come at least three months too late.
Hélène went on, ‘What I cannot accept is a rural prison down here. Mud and puddles for nine months of the year, dull people for twelve. It suits you as you grow old, lazy, sentimental. The ambition has left you. It suits the boys because you have taught them it is better to shoot rabbits than to go to the theatre. But for Felicity and myself, it is nothing. The house is cold, the garden a burden. You cannot expect us to make our lives a void simply to please your English rusticity.’
Once again he summoned his troops to turn her round. Once again they failed to appear. ‘What do you propose?’ he asked, after a pause.
‘It is simple. Felicity and I will stay in the flat in London. That will be our home while she is still at the Lycée. You will make this house your base. I will not come here. The boys will come to me for part of the holidays in order to become civilised, and for the rest they will come here to shoot more rabbits. When Felicity leaves the Lycée she and I will return to Normandy.’
‘You’ve certainly thought it through.’
‘Of course. What else was I supposed to think about during these last weeks, months, years?’
‘You actually wanted it that way? It sounds like it.’
‘No, Roger, no. This is, as you say, my plan B. My plan A would have made you Prime Minister, or at least now Leader of the Party.’
‘That is impossible.’
‘So you tell me.’
His marriage was slipping away, and still he could not stir himself to save it. He sat in his chair, no longer sipping the Chablis, inert, tired, unsure.
Her mood changed again as she came back to the fireside and touched his cheek with a hand cold from the whisky glass. ‘Roger, you are preparing to be miserable. I can read your face. That is the English way. Perhaps you will telephone tomorrow for some social worker with untidy hair and big breasts to come and counsel you.’
‘Don’t laugh at me.’
‘It is too late for tears, at least for us. We French regard these things less tragically, perhaps because we are at heart more serious. Reflect a little, my dear. Behind your pretences you know that my plan B will suit you quite well.’
There was truth in this, thought Roger, as he climbed the stairs to bed. He would sleep apart in his dressing room without drama. He hated to feel that he was losing something happy from the past. But when he thought of the future, the Northamptonshire future, perhaps it would be better for him to live without Hélène, and better for Hélène to divide herself between Notting Hill and Normandy. He knew enough about his children to understand that the key for them was not where they lived but how their parents treated each other.
‘We will be friends,’ he said to Hélène through the door, as he undressed. She already lay in the four-poster bed, which was rather too large for the long narrow bedroom. It was half a question.
‘Good friends, better friends,’ came the answer.
As so often, what happened when David Alcester was around differed from the expected. Julia drove him to the Market Square in Newbury the day after the election. She expected a sedate gathering of Conservative supporters from the constituency. David would thank them for their efforts. He would argue despite the disappointing figures that it had been a triumph to hold back the enemy assault on the South Berkshire constituency. He would encourage them to continue loyal and energetic support for the Conservative Party, by which he and they meant himself.
There indeed they were, about sixty of them, the nicest people on earth. Julia knew most of them by now. She suspected that some of the women and perhaps one or two lads of his local Young England Movement were drawn to David by his fleshy good looks and that helpless lock of fair hair. She often found it difficult to join in the chorus of praise that they heaped on him for integrity, courage and straightforward patriotism, but she had learned by now to keep her mouth shut. She looked back persistently on her loud, colourful teenage views, which had embarrassed her father, the Prime Minister. Her views now were not so colourful, and she reserved them for David and occasionally for her mother.
The local supporters deserved this half-hour of thanks, and Julia did not grudge it. This group, to their surprise, were being kept out of the Corn Exchange where they had expected the party to be held. It was sunny at last, but not all of them had come dressed to cope with the chill wind that was tossing the daffodils deployed in rectangular terracotta containers round a dais erected outside the main door. Something else was afoot; they did not have to wait long to discover it. Julia could hear coaches driving into the bus station between the square and the river beyond, then the noise of ragged cheering as they discharged the passengers. A procession of contingents entered the square, each comprising three or four dozen men and women of all shapes and ages, some carrying banners of the red and white cross of St George, others the name of their city or county. Carlisle, Newcastle, Berwick, Lancaster, Manchester. The Leeds contingent included a brass band, which stationed itself behind the South Berkshire supporters in the centre of the square. There was nothing military about the occasion, and no attempt to march in step.
David and Julia stood concealed at the entrance to a newsagent’s shop until the square was almost full. Then David led her forward towards the daffodils. The couple were recognised with a cheer that gained strength as it travelled round the square. They climbed on to the dais. Julia noticed that the constituency agent had distributed St George’s flags to the somewhat baffled local supporters. Three television vans had positioned themselves to the side of the dais. David, without a coat, looking ten years younger than his age, waited for the remaining busloads. Bradford, Liverpool, Halifax – the square was almost full. To her surprise his expression was solemn. He was doing nothing to milk the crowd. She found herself composing her own features accordingly. The band was still silent.
So David had put together a national rally as a gesture of defiance, snatching a personal success out of the Party’s defeat. They must have started from Carlisle round about dawn. But Julia could see he had something else in store.
David lifted his hand until the square fell silent. The click of press camera shutters became the loudest sound. ‘Thank you, my friends, for being with me here in my home town this morning. We have things to say to each other. But first I have news for you. Sad news. Joan Freetown died in hospital last night.’
A murmur of surprise and dismay ran through the crowd, tinged with pleasure at being present for a dramatic announcement.
‘She was a friend of mine. She was a friend of us all. But, more than that, she was a friend of England. She was our inspiration.’ A murmur of approval. ‘It was she who first warned of the dangers that beset us. You and I in this have been her followers. On your behalf … I visited her in hospital last week, I thanked her. I thanked her, and said goodbye.’
David paused, drew a black armband from his coat pocket and slid it up his left sleeve to a point above his elbow. Instinctively, though she had not seen him do it, Julia knew that he would have practised this gesture before the mirror in the cottage bathroom. She wondered where on earth he had got the armband.
‘When the drum beats once I ask you all to lower St George’s flag to the ground in memory of Joan Freetown, to do her honour, to give her our final thanks. After two minutes when the drum sounds again I want you to raise your flag and hold it proudly aloft. That will be your pledge. We promise that together we will continue her work for England until we save our country from the dangers that threaten us.’
The three Leeds drummers did their work. The banners fell, silence was observed, the banners rose. David interrupted the beginnings of applause. ‘I had come with a long speech, but I find I have already said all that I wanted. So now I ask you to walk with me behind the band through the streets of this town. Let us show the people of Newbury, and the people of England, that today is for us no
t a day of defeat, but a new beginning.’ The applause was not loud but prolonged and heartfelt. Standing next to Julia, the chairman of the South Berkshire Conservative Association blew his nose emotionally.
The parade – David was anxious not to call it a march – took an hour. Then they went back. This time the élite of his local supporters was inside the Corn Exchange, munching sandwiches while the contingents from the north trooped back to the bus station.
David sought out Julia and manoeuvred her into a corner, beneath a varnished brass panel recording the mayors of Newbury under the town crest. ‘It went well,’ he said, half a question, half a challenge.
‘“Aloft” won’t do,’ said Julia.
‘Aloft?’
‘“Hold your banners aloft.” It’s bogus – pseudo-Churchillian.’
A year or two ago he might have been amused, and argued back at the same time. Now he stared at her. ‘There’s a lot you’ll have to understand,’ he said.
Yes, she thought, you’re turning yourself into a humourless Fascist, and you want me to follow you. Encouraged by her own anger, Julia tackled him with a thought that had just come into her mind.
‘No one knew of Joan’s death until you announced it just now.’
‘That’s right. That way we’ll lead every TV bulletin tonight.’
Julia spoke more slowly. ‘I heard you telling the hospital not to announce it last night.’
‘Not till they’d told Guy. That’s common decency. They couldn’t find him last night.’
‘Do you know that they found him this morning?’
‘They’re sure to have. He’ll be at Little Stourton.’
‘Why didn’t they ring there last night?’
‘They didn’t have the number. Only the number of the London flat. The doctor told me they rang Number Ten, but there they had instructions only to give the London number. Guy always insisted on their privacy at Little Stourton. But I’m sure they’ll have found him by now.’
‘You can’t be sure. And, anyway, you could have given them the Little Stourton number yourself.’
‘I could have, Julia, but I didn’t.’ For a moment she had penetrated his armour. ‘Anyway, what is this – an inquisition? What possible harm have I done?’
‘You should have rung Guy yourself. Last night, as soon as you knew.’
‘My dear Julia, I would have been the very worst person to tell Guy that particular item of news. I’m sure he suspected for many years that I was her lover.’
Suddenly shaken to rage, Julia moved to hit him, but hesitated. He caught her hand. ‘Everyone’s watching. Behave yourself.’
‘You’re a shit above all shits. You organised it all to give yourself a scoop.’
‘I organised nothing. Joan died when she died. I tweaked the timing of the announcement a bit, that’s all. Anyway, who suffered? Not Joan, poor woman. Not Guy – he slept quiet last night. Not the media – they have two stories for the price of one, Joan’s death, my rally.’
‘You don’t understand …’ She knew this was lame, but they were in different worlds, side by side under a pillar in the Newbury Corn Exchange, he half-way through a ham and cheese sandwich, she grasping a glass of Argentine red in the hand that had almost struck him.
‘No, I don’t understand. Luckily I don’t have to. We must go home now. I want to watch the two o’clock news.’
She followed him out in silence, thinking of her father, Simon Russell, and then, by a sideways leap, of Louise.
‘So everyone in the village is thinking of you. And of course you mustn’t dream of looking after the churchyard today. I’ll get Bert to do it. I’m sure he won’t mind.’
The churchwarden had rung as soon as she heard the news on the two o’clock bulletin. Guy left the receiver off the hook, knowing that it would soon start a whine of complaint, but badly needing a few silent minutes. He had forgotten that it was his weekend to tidy the churchyard. The call from the hospital had obliterated, for the moment, all outstanding business from the rest of his life.
When he had been discharged the day before from the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford, Guy might have asked the taxi to drive him to London, to the flat, or indeed straight to Joan in the Glebe. That was what most people would have expected. Instead they had driven him here, at his request, and left him, having satisfied themselves that he was fit to look after himself until the daily help came on Monday. They were busy people and could not be expected to probe further.
But Joan in the Glebe Hospital was to him like Joan in the Treasury, Joan in the House of Commons or at the Party Conference – belonging to a world in which he had no lasting part. For years he had inserted himself into that alien world at moments of critical decision. He had tried to make sure that Joan did not unbalance her life by sacrificing everything, and in particular her own standards, to political success. After her resignation that danger had gone. What he now loved was Joan at Little Stourton, in the past and, he had hoped, the future.
The Joan of politics, even the Joan sick in the Glebe, the Joan for which a big memorial service would now be held in London, was no longer part of him.
As a result he had not been there when she died. Would she have wanted him? Perhaps. As the Frenchman once said, for those who did not believe in God, death was a solitary business. Joan would have died alone, even if he, David Alcester, Peter Makewell, the whole Parliamentary Party and the media had been gathered in sympathy at her bedside.
He had visited the hospital the day before his accident. They had talked about protecting the pear blossom at Little Stourton from frost and whether he should divide up the daffodil bulbs, which had had a disappointing year, on the slope leading up from the back door to the stables. This had been their farewell talk, calm, practical, unpolitical. He was content with that.
After the telephone call they had faxed him a form from the Glebe Hospital with little boxes to tick. Cremation? Certainly not, he had written over the box. Did he need counselling? He had thrown the form into the wastepaper basket.
Slowly Guy gathered the implements necessary for tidying the churchyard. The grass was not yet growing, so he would not need the mower. It was not true that Bert would be quite glad to take Guy’s turn. Bert was set in his ways and would grumble for weeks. The doctor had said that a little gentle exercise would do Guy’s neck good; it was now encased in a collar. Some clipping and weeding round the graves was necessary. It could be done quietly, almost without effort. His first visit was to the empty plot of grass, just south of the porch, that would welcome Joan when finally she came home.
‘Too wet to walk before tea?’
Of course it was too wet. The rain alternately dribbled and spat at the window-panes of Chequers. The hint of spring in the last few days before polling day had disappeared, its place taken by the return of a characterless English winter.
But Julia knew that her mother’s question was only superficially related to the weather. For four, nearly five years the Russell family had spent most weekends at Chequers. The spirit of Simon, husband, father, prime minister, was more vivid for both of them at that time in that place than any recollection of the men with whom they now lived and, in a funny way, loved. Simon had never played tennis at Chequers and rarely swum, but he had walked in all weathers, taking his womenfolk with him when he could persuade them. They knew where the boots were stored and where the rain jackets hung.
‘Of course we must walk,’ said Julia.
But once they were out under the dripping beeches there was nothing particular to say about the past. Neither was in the mood for amiable reminiscence. Julia was there because she needed to consult her mother, but it was an unaccustomed activity and she did not know how to set about it. So she advanced sideways via the election result. ‘He’ll miss it all? Peter, I mean.’
‘Of course,’ said Louise. ‘He’ll pretend not to. He has been telling me for months that he expected to lose and how splendid it will be to go back to Scotland. But I know th
at in his heart he hoped for a miracle that would keep him here, and the red boxes flowing.’
‘And you?’
‘What do you mean, and me?’
‘I can’t see you settling down in Perthshire.’
‘Can’t you?’ Louise quickened her pace as if to get away from the question.
‘You’ll be bored to tears.’
‘You’re wrong, Julia. Boredom is the curse of the young. I can sculpt in Scotland as well as in Wandsworth. Anyway, I expect we’ll find a flat in Pimlico or Chelsea.’
‘Peter will stay as Leader of the Opposition?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Louise. ‘I’m not sure. There was a time when I asked all these questions myself and was impatient for an answer – or rather for the answer I thought was right. That seems long ago. Now I am with a lesser man, but a good man. I shall wait and follow.’
‘That can’t be right. Peter Makewell married you so that you could give him the answer. He told me so once. He wanted to borrow your force.’
‘No, Julia, no. And even if he did I cannot deliver force any more. It is running down inside me. Quietly and slowly, not suddenly like Joan Freetown. Soon the battery will be quite flat. I am content.’
They had passed out of the wood through a swing gate on to a path bordered by iron railings on one side and primroses on the other.
Suddenly Julia burst into tears. For the first seconds she was crying for the loss of the fierce energy that had made her mother so exceptional – and so maddening. Then she began to cry for herself, and that went on longer. Louise had never been good at physical caresses, but she awkwardly caught hold of her daughter and held her head against the wet, shiny, green outside of her coat. ‘Is it David?’ she said.