‘I’ll be announcing Rob’s appointment tomorrow morning as the new Number 10 press secretary,’ said Buller. ‘Unexpected no doubt, but, given he’s done six years as The Times’ political editor, we might at least keep that paper onside.’ He grimaced. Hooded brown eyes, snuggling beneath heavy brown brows, bore in on her. ‘Well, congratulations.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It was a seat we had to win.’ He looked down at an untidy cluster of papers on the glass table in front of him. ‘I happened to arrive at Festival Hall just in time for your declaration. A turning point.’
‘Yes.’
‘I watched your speech.’
‘Oh.’
‘I watched it again yesterday. We recorded the night.’ He paused. ‘It was remarkable.’
‘Oh, good.’ She realized she was scuffing her hands together and told herself to stop.
‘Is there anything I ought to know . . .?’ His voice tailed off.
She suspected he had been told to ask the question. ‘No. I live to work. That’s it.’
‘Curiously enough,’ he resumed, as if he had not heard her, ‘I tend to believe the Security Service when it tells me it does not vet ministers.’ God, she thought, what’s this leading to? ‘Unless, of course, they think someone’s going to blow up Parliament.’ He manufactured a twisting of the face, intended to be a smile.
‘I’ll try to resist that temptation,’ she said. The face untwisted itself.
‘I want this to be a moral government.’ He blurted it out, his eyes coming alive, shining through the hoods. ‘We said that once before and it didn’t work out. This time it will.’
‘That’s why I joined the party,’ she said. ‘Why I stood for parliament.’
‘There are obstacles.’ Again he did not speak directly to her. ‘Not just from outside, but within the party too.’ He sprang up from his seat, walked to the window and peered down at the Downing Street garden below.
‘Steve Whalley.’ He stopped. She resisted any temptation to nudge him. ‘Stalwart of the party. I have asked him to be Home Secretary.’
She nodded, maintaining a strategy of silence. ‘One of my strongest backers for the leadership. He’s a traditionalist. Needs support from a strong, modern voice. Someone with an unblemished record in human rights.’
He walked back, sat down and fiddled again with the papers. Was it an act that allowed him to judge her reactions – or was he hamstrung by a social gaucheness? Especially, perhaps, with women. ‘The Home Office, as presently structured – a structure I see no need to change – has three Ministers of State. One oversees crime prevention, the second policing and criminal justice, the third security and immigration.’ He paused. ‘You know all this.’
‘Yes,’ replied Anne-Marie, breaking her silence, ‘I’ve had dealings on the other side of the table with the outgoing Minister for Security and Immigration.’
‘Of course.’ A hint of a smile appeared and instantly dissolved. ‘It’s a difficult portfolio. Asylum, extradition, national security.’ He paused. ‘The surveillance which makes that possible.’
‘All areas of great professional interest to me,’ said Anne-Marie. ‘And now political interest too.’
‘We should not always be a predictable government. I’m determined that now, right at the beginning, we show that we can be bold.’ He looked up and, for the first time, fully locked eyes with her. ‘I would like to offer you a post in my government as Home Office Minister of State for Security and Immigration.’
‘Jesus.’ Her language relapsed, the astonishment was so real. A welling of emotion caught her unawares. She swatted it like a fly. ‘I don’t know what to say.’
McNeil caught her eye. ‘I think what the Prime Minister would like you to say is whether or not you accept his offer,’ he said gently.
She had that odd sensation – not for the first time in her life – of her words emerging ahead of her thoughts. ‘Yes, of course.’ She did not hesitate. ‘Of course I do.’
‘Good,’ stated Buller without emotion.
‘I have no experience in government.’
‘Few of us do. But you have expertise.’
‘What about Steve Whalley?’ she found herself asking.
‘Don’t worry about Steve,’ replied Buller, ‘you’ll find a way.’
She sensed the conversation was over and stood up. This time, unlike at her arrival, he stretched out a hand and she shook it. ‘Any problems you ever have, just ring Rob. He’ll be my eyes and ears.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ McNeil said with a nod.
He waved her ahead of him and followed her down a modest corridor lined with nondescript watercolours before emerging at the grand staircase. Anne-Marie considered the scions of the British establishment looking down on her. The blessed Theresa, fleshy Cameron, glowering Brown, Blair, the grinner in anguish by his end, Major, the nothing man, Thatcher, the femme fatale who had haunted Anne-Marie’s teenage years.
‘History’s proving kind to her, isn’t it?’ remarked McNeil, scrutinizing Anne-Marie’s eyes trained on the famous face and bouffant hair.
She stopped to look more closely at the portrait. The journey she had made suddenly seemed so improbable. To think that the idea of Thatcher as the mortal enemy was one of the certainties of her political upbringing. And yet here she was stepping down the very staircase this iconic foe had once graced. Of course, it was not only she: the one-time leaders of the IRA now too were politicians, collaborating with a British state they had wanted to destroy.
‘In that case, history is being somewhat premature,’ Anne-Marie replied tartly.
‘Perhaps that depends on when history begins,’ Rob continued.
She turned sharply, again feeling the dread. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Only musing.’ He smiled. ‘Just thinking of how quickly they can come and go.’ She thought she detected admiration in his eyes. Perhaps it was nothing more.
She turned away and accelerated down the stairs. McNeil skipped down them behind her. As they crossed the chequerboard floor and approached the front door, she stopped again. He caught up and she inspected him more thoroughly. The furrowed seriousness was even more apparent, enhanced by the widow’s peak of his pale hair.
‘I should have congratulated you in there,’ she said. ‘It’s a great achievement. A huge job too – the voice of government.’
He smiled again. ‘That’s rather an intimidating way of putting it. I meant to congratulate you too. Yours was an important victory.’ He paused, looking around. ‘And now all this.’
‘I know. Doesn’t quite feel real, does it?’
She spun on her heel, nodded to the policeman at the door, and left to the clicking of photographers and yells of reporters. Despite her trembling knees, she paused, smiled, waved, took a deep breath and strode off up Downing Street.
She had anticipated the return walk would be a celebration, wordless though with a smile for the camera. Now, the smile fought the thumping in her head. Coming face to face with McNeil had brought the past abruptly to unwelcome life. She sensed walking invisibly beside her the three men – one brother, two lovers – who had truly mattered in her life. All long gone, swept away from her, disappeared. Who knew where? Or how? Were they now to be the ghosts at her banquet?
She crossed the Embankment, red flashes of passing buses appearing abstract, almost unreal. What if I stepped out now? She caught herself, reflecting on the idiocy of the thought, worse still the failure of nerve, and headed for the pedestrian lights.
Over Westminster Bridge she increased her pace, wanting to run, but knew she must not. There could be more photographers, followers, pursuers even. She found herself watching out for men in hats. Her pulse raced. Calm it down, slow deep breaths, smile, admire the reflections of the river, enjoy the rainbow colours of tourist groups.
Big Ben struck five – she could only have been in there twenty minutes; it felt not just an eternity but a distant one.
She reached the other
side of the river, crossed and flitted down the steps onto the Thames pathway. To the right the Houses of Parliament, a mile or so ahead the boorish shape of MI6’s grandiose contribution to the London skyline and James Bond films. The monstrous palace of games.
The South Bank unshackled her. She took off her heels and, despite the constrictions of her skirt, broke into a jog. As the last neo-Gothic vestiges of the Houses of Parliament slipped from her eyeline, the building rhythm of her movement slowed her heartbeat. A sense of mission seeped down and reinforced her.
CHAPTER 8
November 1993
She’s told Mrs Ryan the bus to Cork leaves from BusAras at 8 a.m. To avoid seeing her or the kids, Maire creeps out of the house with her rucksack an hour earlier. Night is clearing to a biting crispness as the sun breaks through the late November fog.
The bus station’s less than a mile away but she takes a detour via Talbot Street, instinctively glancing back for prowling eyes. She tells herself not to be an idiot and heads for the junction with O’Connell Street. They’re picking her up outside the General Post Office – whatever the historical connections, at least they can’t miss it. Because of the early departure she’s half an hour to kill and finds a side street café to warm her hands over a cup of tea.
At 8 a.m. a sporty-looking car draws up and toots its horn. David leaps out and helps her into the cramped back. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘you’re the only one who’ll fit there.’
As they pull away, he does the introductions. ‘Maire, this is my friend, Rob.’ The driver takes one hand off the steering wheel, turns and offers it.
‘Hi, Maire.’ He doesn’t sound quite as posh as David but the nicely cut and brushed straw-coloured hair and green jacket suggest wealth.
She shakes the hand. ‘Hello, Rob.’
They head west, Rob driving too fast and David urging him to go faster. David swivels. ‘His choice of car, not mine.’ Rob grimaces.
The space in the back is so tight that even she, with her short legs, is forced to put them across the seat. She can’t help her face being close to the hair falling on his collar and has an urge to blow on the soft skin of his nape. In the rear-view mirror, she sees Rob now smiling. He turns to David, ‘Well, you said she was a looker.’
She glows. She realizes she’s never felt so well – her skin feels fresh, even the spots have gone. She feels the tyre of flesh around her waist – still there but tauter. Is that what love can do? She bats away the question. This can never be about that.
They drive past Maynooth, through Kinnegad and into Athlone, where David suggests stopping to inspect the dull, grey stone fortress by the river.
‘His culture only extends to wars and battles,’ Rob says as they stare up at it.
‘He doesn’t talk ’bout that with me,’ says Maire.
‘That’s because you’re broadening my horizons,’ says David.
‘About bloody time someone did,’ says Rob, winking at Maire. ‘Has he bored you with his rugby stories yet?’
‘Didn’t even know he played.’
‘Ah, the many talents . . .’ He stops himself, breaks into a chuckle and stretches out his left hand to slap David on the shoulder. ‘The many talents of the amazing Mr David Vallely.’
Then it’s on to Galway city for a bacon sandwich and, in deference to their notions of Irishness, pints of Guinness around a rickety wooden pub table.
‘So,’ Maire says, turning to Rob, ‘tell us more about the secret life of David Vallely.’
‘Now you’re asking.’
‘I wanna know. He never talks ’bout himself.’
‘What can I say?’ Rob reflects, looking fondly at his friend. ‘I’ve known this comedian for, let me see, twelve years off and on. It’s not been easy for him . . .’ He leaves the thought unspoken.
‘Did you know his ma and da?’ she interrupts, getting it.
‘Not his father, he died a while ago. His mother was lovely.’ He allows a silence to hang.
‘I’m sorry,’ says Maire, turning to David, who’s looking away, out of the pub window.
‘Anyway,’ resumes Rob, ‘in all that time, we’ve hardly had a cross word. There’ve been periods when he’s been travelling – he’s a bit of a hobo – but we just take up where we left off. Nothing changes.’
‘That’s great,’ says Maire. ‘Great to have a friend like that.’ Her voice tails off and she too stares out of the window, feeling her own aloneness.
‘Anyway’ – Rob’s eyes are trained on David – ‘after all that wandering, he looks settled now, doesn’t he?’
‘I am, mate,’ agrees David, ‘I really think I am.’
‘And about bloody time too!’ exclaims Rob, puncturing the moment of gravity.
They pass another castle, the gaunt ruins of Menlo, which David doesn’t inflict on them, and finally, in the early afternoon, the mountains of Connemara loom beneath a lowering late autumn sky.
‘I need to climb a hill,’ exclaims David. ‘You on, Maire? You said you’d like to.’
‘Yeah, I’m on.’ She glances at him, throwing a challenge, the car pulls up and he helps her climb out over the front seat.
‘Race you to the top,’ she says. ‘Loser pays all.’
‘OK, you’re on.’ He pinches her and grins.
Before the two men can move, she’s running through a springy field, splattering mud over her jeans. She finds a path along a stone wall and begins to climb, sheep watching her haste with incredulity. She hears them chasing her. ‘We’re coming to get you,’ yells David.
She forges on, flicking looks behind as they close. She reaches a gate, hops neatly over it and feels drops of rain on her hair. She looks up and the skies are blackening. She stops, closes her eyes, opens her arms, and feels a gush of water burst over her face. At the same moment, he’s behind her, throwing his arms around the fold of her waist, his body tight and hard against hers, breathing heavily.
‘OK,’ he says, ‘you win. Now let’s get the hell back to the car before we drown.’ He’s never held her like that before.
They reach the modest, pebble-dashed guesthouse in Clifden as dusk falls. A swirling wind beats rain against windows and the sea against rocks. The landlady recoils at the drenched, shivering arrivals.
‘Hot showers for you, then.’ She peers down at her reservations book. ‘A single and a double?’ There’s a question mark in her voice.
‘The single’s for me,’ says Maire.
A couple of hours later the rain subsides and they find a pub serving up easygoing food, a crackling wood fire, and a live band. It’s an out-of-season Saturday evening but the place is crowded with locals of all shapes and ages: wizened old peat cutters wearing black jackets matching the darkness of their stout mingling with ruddy-faced country girls displaying brightly coloured skirts and muscled calves.
With speakers turned up to deafen, the band strike up a jig. Maire motions David to the dance floor. She tries to set steps for him to follow but it’s a lost cause as he narrowly avoids her toes and grasps her instead in close embrace. The music ends and he leads her back to their table.
‘He sings better than he dances,’ Rob tells Maire with a curiously dull edge. He sees her notice and perks himself up. ‘Go on, get him on stage.’
‘It’s gotta be an improvement,’ she says. ‘His dancing’s shite.’
David glares at Rob but is too late to stop her skipping over to the band leader. She points to David and heads back towards the two friends. She sees them break off their conversation, still glaring at each other. The edge between them is odd – she assumes David’s embarrassed by his friend.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ announces the lead singer, ‘we’re joined on vocals by David from Dublin.’ David walks over and whispers in his ear. ‘And he’ll be singing for us that beautiful folk song which originated the other side of the Irish sea but we’ve adopted as our own. You all know it – “The Nightingale”.’
The fiddle and guitar play their o
pening bars. David, gazing into Maire’s eyes, lifts the microphone to his lips and softly and shyly sings.
As I went a walking one morning in May
I met a young couple so far did we stray
And one was a young maid so sweet and so fair
And the other was a soldier and a brave Grenadier
With his free hand, David beckons the audience to join in the chorus.
And they kissed so sweet and comforting as they clung to each other
They went arm-in-arm along the road like sister and brother
They were arming along the road till they came to a stream
And they both sat down together, love, to hear the nightingale sing.
The song ends, the audience clap and cheer. David, now confident and enjoying the moment, bows. Maire has a new sensation – she feels proud of him.
‘You could almost pass for an Irishman,’ she says.
‘I love the music,’ David replies. ‘Listen to it endlessly.’
‘And now you’re in the country itself.’ She turns to his friend. ‘Do you know Ireland, Rob?’
‘A bit,’ he says. ‘I did a six-month stint in the North for the paper.’
‘Oh,’ she says, her voice rising an octave. ‘When was that?’
‘Not so long ago, summer of ’91.’
‘So, pretty quiet.’
‘Yeah, not much,’ he says casually. ‘Only real nasty was the murder of the Special Branch guy, poor bastard.’
She’s motionless. ‘I read about it. I’d left by then, thank God.’ The memory kills conversation and their eyes turn back to the band.
Later, Rob withdraws to the guesthouse and Maire and David find themselves walking along the harbour front. The clouds have cleared and he puts his arm round her. She doesn’t sink into him.
‘You’re shivering,’ he says.
‘It’s not exactly warm,’ she says with a touch of frost.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘I can tell,’ he says. ‘Was it the pub? Or Rob?’
She pipes up. ‘Well, I did wonder why you looked as if you wanted to punch each other.’
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