A Parliamentary Affair Read Free Page B

officers’ mess: hearty, sharp, brutal and cunning. These days it was more like the prefects’ study in a public school. Government whips must get the government’s business through, by whatever means necessary, but no one forgot that there were carrots as well as sticks. The Chief Whip’s other title is ‘Patronage Secretary’. He it is who, using knowledge gleaned over months and years by his team, makes recommendations as to position, prestige and power – who should serve on important committees, who gets a better office, who goes on all-expenses-paid overseas trips (‘jollies’), who gets promotion, who the sack. The Chief Whip will even help write appropriately oleaginous resignation letters, if the numbed signatory so wishes. In the Chief’s room there is blood on the carpet, but far more under it. Nothing goes on in the Palace of Westminster that the whips don’t know about; or, at least, so they think.
    Thus Roger Dickson, temperament admirably suited to the task, was delighted to continue. He was part of the knowing aristocracy of the House. He had no desire just yet to become junior minister in charge of stray dogs, mouthing trivialities in an empty Chamber at midnight and signing ministerial letters by the red box-load.
    Dickson turned back into Members’ Lobby. He recognised Andrew Muncastle, whose grandfather, Sir Edward Muncastle, had been a Member also, serving in Macmillan’s government. Andrew was tall, fair, clean-shaven, pleasant-looking. Dickson searched for a distinguishing feature but found none; the man might be difficult to remember. No such problems with Elaine Stalker. Dickson had heard a lot about Mrs Stalker and was curious to meet her. That bright lively face had been instantly recognisable since her first fiery speech at Party Conference two years ago, before she was even on the candidates’ list. He recalled the incident vividly. Pleading for more help for the former Communist countries of eastern Europe, she took out a vast pair of scissors and shredded a Soviet flag, complete with hammer and sickle, to huge cheers and a standing ovation. To do it so effectively in the four minutes allotted for floor speeches must have entailed hours of practice. Delegates had loved every moment. Most of her future parliamentary colleagues quietly disapproved. Showmanship and headline grabbing, however valuable in a democratic society, were still regarded as talents rather beneath MPs. Especially since most were pretty hopeless at such skills themselves.
    Elaine Stalker was the shortest in the group, even wearing high-heeled shoes. She was striking in appearance, Dickson noted, almost conventionally good-looking with well-defined features and clear skin, an oval face with strong cheekbones, blonde hair in a great halo round her head – very well assembled. Pretty hands, emphasising her speech. Bold Butler & Wilson pearl earrings and a matching brooch on her smart blue suit piped in white, all saying emphatically, ‘Tory woman MP’.Women’s styles still bore the impact of Margaret Thatcher’s tastes. It would be years before a woman MP could wear anything but a tailored suit and be taken seriously at the same time. Elaine Stalker would be in her thirties, a year or two older than Andrew Muncastle. A year or three younger than himself. In Roger Dickson’s fertile brain the lady was promptly marked down as a new Member well worth getting to know.
    ‘I’m Roger Dickson. I’m one of the whips. Welcome to Westminster, all of you.’
    The little group turned to him respectfully. Members of the same party shake hands only once, on first meeting. After that, superstition sets in: if two members shake hands, one will lose at the next election. Roger told them the legend and was entertained as Elaine’s eyes shone in disbelief. ‘But that won’t bother me. I would expect to kiss most of my colleagues, once I get to know them of course.’ She looked up at him mischievously. She had hazel eyes,