by Andrew Marr
Elspeth opened the door even before he’d chapped it. ‘Come on in, then. Sit yourself down and have a cup. I ken why you’re here, mebbe. If Bunty’s right you’ve got a lot on your mind.’ Rosa bared her teeth as Davie sat down. There was no point in dissembling here. He painstakingly explained the situation. Elspeth famously loathed the Master and his old wars, but she sat and listened patiently. It was as if she knew it all already.
‘I’m not one for the drink,’ she said, ‘but this is a special occasion, Davie – and by the by, under my roof you’re just wee Davie Petrie, no’ the cabinet minister or future prime minister, or any of that nonsense.’ She brought out a bottle of Cream of the Barley and, unasked, added a hefty slug to the two cups of tea.
On the small television in a corner of the room, the news came and went. Tiny fragments and splinters of wars, domestic tragedies and bogus scientific reports, unnoticed by either of them. Even a brief item featuring the face of Caroline Phillips didn’t halt the flow of conversation. Almost unconsciously, Elspeth flicked channels. Evan Davies harangued silently for another half-hour, during which Davie’s concentration remained fixed intently on Elspeth. For it was quite a story she was telling.
She spoke about his father. Whatever Davie had always believed, all the village knew what a brute he was, and all the village had sympathised with little David and his mother. ‘But there was nothing we could do for you puir souls. Your da had them all sewn up – the council, the social services, even the doctors. There was naebody in Glaikit who’d look big Bob Petrie straight in the eye. There were rumours that he had some of the bigger lads from the firm to break a few teeth, even a leg or two, but I never credited that. Bob did it mostly on charisma, and the rest on hard cash. Like a lot of bullies, he was a hell of a man. Handsome till the drink got him, like a big dark bull.’
‘Mrs Cook, you almost sound as if you were smitten.’
‘Aye, Davie, I hoped we wouldn’t get onto that. But yes, forgive me, I had my moments with your da. I wasn’t the only one, mind. Feel wretched about it now – your poor mother. But you have to understand that for many years Bob Petrie was Glaikit, and Glaikit was Bob, and the Labour Party was both of them together.’
‘But you stayed.’
‘In the party? Aye, of course. Where else was there to go, for a widow woman who cared about other folk? The kirk? The Nats? The bloody Tories? Aye, I stayed Labour. But it’s a horrible, corrupt, cynical story round these parts. That’s why you mattered so much to us all.’
‘But I was just the bad man’s son. Around these parts I was Big Black Bob Petrie the second.’
‘Naw, Davie. Naebody the second. You aye had something special. We all saw it. A kind of innocence. Said what you meant. Really cared. You never took a bribe in your life. So when we packed you off to Westminster, for a lot of us it was like a new start. This sounds daft, and Bunty would be laughing if she could hear me, but you were Glaikit’s second chance, a possibility of redemption.’
Davie wasn’t sure whether she was laughing or crying: ‘But I got tangled up with the Master. If I get the top job, if I really get to put this town on the map, I have to deliver things to him that I don’t want to. And Mrs Cook, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea about me. I’ve done some bad stuff on the way up. I’m no angel.’
‘Listen, pet, we all have our suspicions.’ Davie grimaced as she topped up his cup with more whisky. ‘And we’re all on the side of Mary and the boys. That cousin of yours is hanging around a wee bit too much. You want to heal the wounds your father caused, and that job begins at home. You’ve got a fine family, and if you don’t care for them properly, nothing else will work. Don’t underestimate Bunty. In some ways she’s your biggest fan, but not everything she’s told me about your life in London has made this old woman’s face light up with joy.’
Like most Catholics, David Petrie hadn’t been to confession once in his adult life; but he imagined that this was what it must feel like. This tough old woman, who’d maintained for so long that old Joe Stalin had known a thing or two, and who’d been so bitter about Kinnock, Blair, Brown and Miliband, was the most unlikely mother-confessor he could imagine. Even so, he felt wretched and relieved at the same time, which he imagined was the outcome the Church was aiming for.
‘He was always a bastard to me,’ said Davie. ‘If there was one thing I always hoped, it was that I’d never be that kind of bastard myself. But perhaps I’ve just become a different kind of bastard.’
Elspeth sniffed. ‘Enough of the self-pity. You want to know what to do? You don’t come hirpling away out in the middle of the night to ask some daft old wife’s advice. Life’s no’ a fairy story. You ken fine well what you have to do, David Petrie. But since you seem to want my advice – the prize is within your grasp. Take it, and make us proud. As for the so-called Master, it’s time to drop all that shite. If you’re a man – and I think you are – you take your own fucking decisions.’
Later that night, before he went to bed, Davie surprised himself by going down on his knees and muttering a promise. The Roman Church, he thought: all roads lead to Rome.
Upstairs, he gently rolled over the comatose Mary, and kissed her on the earlobes and neck before making love. He thought he tasted tears on her cheeks, but that made him more excited, not less.
Back in Barker
People say I made nothing better. That’s not true. I was jolly good for gays.
The Master
If there was one unexpected lesson that Caro had learned from her years with Angela, it was that drunkenness didn’t make her less worth listening to – far from it. If there had been a coat of arms for their relationship, the motto scrolled on the bottom would have been In Vino Veritas. In Chablis Veritas in particular.
Angela drunk and angry was a very special experience. Standing with her black eyes blazing, hands on hips, and clearly not caring if the boys could hear her upstairs, she was giving Caro everything she had. They had begun the evening with a romantic meal in the local Italian trattoria, where things had started to go awry – briskly snapped breadsticks, too much eyeing of wine glasses – then they’d moved on to the George and Dragon, where the Dragon had the best of it, and ended up back home after a loud public argument, during which they had tacked along the pavement like a pair of drunken yachts heading into a storm.
‘Lesbians have stars,’ explained Angela. ‘There are five-star lesbians, never looked at a man, brave, bright, glittering, glittering …’ She waved her arm vaguely towards the door, which at that moment represented the universe. ‘And there are four-star lesbians, who won’t go with a man, but will go with any kind of girl. And there are the three-stars, keep their heads down, smirk at the boss – homebodies, not ashamed, not proud. And there are the two-stars, married all their lives until they get bored at fifty-five, go for the woman next door, quiet life, quiet bed. And then there are the one-star lesbians, the hypocrites, the faithless …’
Angela began to cry. But she brushed the tears aside, and her mouth puckered in fury. ‘How many stars do you wear on your fucking cap, Caroline Phillips? I had you down as a three-star lesbian. Just like me – no great heroine, but a decent, honest woman, true to herself, true to me. But as of this evening, I officially downgrade you. You’re a hypocritical one-star fraud. Are you even, you know, actually gay?’
Caro waited for the outrage to come bubbling up, but it didn’t bubble. She knew the Master had been coming on to her, and that she’d felt more intrigued than irritated. And yes, she’d had men, just sometimes, in the years before Angela. And no, it hadn’t been revolting, just mildly disappointing. Making love to a man was like making love to an eager, panting domestic animal, desperate for his head to be scratched, and with a silly little sausage he wanted rid of. Making love to Angela felt, by contrast, an entirely adult and grown-up activity. But Caro realised that it was unlikely to be on the cards tonight. Best thing was to knock Angela out until the morning. So she shrugged, and went off for anothe
r bottle of life juice from the fridge.
The trouble in the restaurant had started over whether Caroline should go to the security conference in Rome at all. Over the breadsticks and prosciutto she’d told Angela about Alwyn Grimaldi’s cynical appropriation of their great idea. (‘Whose great idea?’ Angela had asked.) Angela, though she’d tried for Caro’s sake, had never seen Grimaldi as a serious figure; and when his resignation had been announced a few days earlier, she had been straight on the phone to Caro, urging her to run. ‘It would be a great thing,’ she said, ‘to be the first gay partner in Downing Street, with the boys there too. A real moment in history. You know, Caro, I want to be part of that. There’s so much we could do together.’
But she couldn’t help noticing, as they divided the pasta, that Caro hadn’t been quite as enthusiastic as she would once have been. These days she harped on about Angela’s drinking, as if it was a real problem – which it wasn’t, or hardly ever. When they talked about whether she was up to the job, again and again she’d bring up something the Master had said; and there was something about the way she talked about him that Angela didn’t like.
‘It’s almost as if you’re smitten by him.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’m faithful to one person, and one person only. If you don’t know that, you don’t know me at all. But … he’s an extraordinary man.’
‘Pah. He’s weak, actually. He reminds me of the little boy in the playground who looks around for the biggest boy there and goes and stands next to him, desperate for protection. That’s all you need to know about the so-called Master and the Americans, or the Master and the banks. He may have his tricks of the trade, but believe me, Caro, if you get into bed with him, he’ll exact a horrible price. You’ll never recover. Nor, frankly, will we.’
‘Who said anything about bed?’
The argument had spiralled downwards from there, until it ended up in the shouting match.
The following morning, her face swollen and her head thumping, Caro had nevertheless kissed Angela tenderly.
‘You’ll just have to trust me, sweetheart. I’m going, whatever you say.’
‘Going where?’ Angela groaned.
‘I’m going all the way. But first, I’m going to Rome.’
In the Hotel
The Americans. Stand beside the Americans. If you stand with the Americans, not much can really go wrong.
The Master (but quite a long time ago)
On a hillside studded with umbrella pines overlooking Trastevere, the Hotel Excelsior Splendide lived up, with peacocky Latin swagger, to the cheerful pomposity of its name. The pruned walkways of its gardens were strewn with looted marble fragments from the age of Augustus. Its entrance hall was a half-kilometre square of mosaic marble exuberance, with plush red sofas and waiting staff dressed rather more smartly than the most senior ranks of the Italian armed forces, surrounded by gilded Corinthian columns. In the bedrooms, there were original artworks. Andy Warhol’s prints of multi-coloured dollar signs were particularly popular. Benvenuto Cellini had designed the cutlery, and Paolo Veronese had done the wallpaper – or so it appeared. Down in its bowl of dusty tourism and mafia-run shopping, the rest of Rome sometimes raised its eyes to the faraway gelato palace of the hotel and felt a spasm of jealousy.
Most weeks, the Excelsior Splendide was simply there to host international business conferences. Men with high blood pressure and button-down shirts fought over the lobster buffet in the evenings and waddled down to the Imperial Roman bathing pool the next morning, like so many warthogs in thongs. Air-conditioned limousines and oleaginous guides could be hired for spouses or mistresses who wished to shop or view the sights of the Eternally Cynical City. Around the grounds, former taxi drivers and retired policemen posed in short white smocks, with plastic helmets, shields and swords; in the evenings they engaged in listless, slow-motion gladiatorial combat for the entertainment of executives on their way to dinner. It was widely believed that their meaty thighs and weatherbeaten faces were available for hire later. The front desk took care of everything.
But on this particular week, under the shade of the pines and behind the yew hedges, the gladiators were sulky. They were outnumbered and outshone by the magnificent carabinieri of the Tuscania airborne regiment – leaner, younger men, and indeed better-armed. The gladiators, who had their pride after all, suspected the jumped-up policemen of sniggering at their skirts. If so, they kept their laughter mostly to themselves, and adopted poker faces as the guests passed. For the carabinieri were on duty to protect the many dozen American and EU politicians and military top brass who had gathered to debate intelligence issues following the recent bombings. This week it was all very serious, and very grown-up.
The public face of the conference was, naturally, meaningless: there would be a televised speech by the European security commissioner, and a short statement by the US vice president. Nothing surprising would be said, though what was unremarkable would be said well, and truisms repeated with elegance and force. (What else, after all, are the literature degrees at so many expensive universities on both sides of the Atlantic for?) In the hotel’s conference rooms, there would be briefings about Islamist penetration of European cities; vague descriptions of outrageous surveillance strategies, swaddled in a cocoon of euphemism; and an elegant talk from a self-congratulatory professor from Bologna about the history of radicalism in Pakistan and Egypt. But all the real business was conducted quietly in the hotel bedrooms, or the American Bar. Politicians spoke about unspoken deals; shook hands on silences; and ended the careers of people who had been warmly praised in the public sessions. And this serious business had brought to Rome two of the least well-matched Americans the current administration could have sent.
Symon Cantor had risen to the vice presidency via Harvard Law School, a firm of blue-chip New York attorneys, two successful congressional races, and a spell as majority whip. Members of his family had served under Eisenhower and Bush senior. Lean, aquiline and disdainful, Sy Cantor had been the kind of public prosecutor tough enough to take on the mob, and elegantly rich enough to be an honorary member of the yacht clubs without going to the bother of owning a yacht. If, after dressing, he saw a smudge of grease on the tip of one of his loafers, his whole day would be spoiled.
Out West, all of this didn’t wash. ‘Sy’s no cowboy,’ the younger Bush had said. ‘He’s the kind of guy who gets out of the shower to take a piss.’
Buzz Boyd was a different kind of political animal entirely. The Boyds were haulage contractors and beef men from Wyoming; in his younger days Buzz had narrowly avoided a jail sentence for drunk driving, and had burned down his cousin’s mall in a family feud, before he discovered business school, football, love and Jesus, in more or less that order. Not only was he a real Cowboy, having played football for the University of Wyoming – or Yoo Dubya to its friends – but he had married a Cowgirl.
Buzz Boyd’s lovely wife Betty had come to UW on a track scholarship. She and Buzz first met on Prexy’s Pasture, on the university campus. Alcohol was involved, and Laramie bars. But soon enough, Betty’s membership of the Harvest Family Church rubbed off on Buzz. A teetotaller, a proud westerner, and soon a rising executive at Mukwon Energy, Buzz cut his political teeth as an adviser to Sarah Palin, before arriving in Washington as a political consultant to the Tea Party.
Where Sy Cantor was tall and silver as an aspen, Buzz was squat, red and aggressive as a prickly pear. Sy had scored his share of birdies on the Blue Course at Congressional Country Club. Buzz shot birds, as well as birdies. Sy read French novels, in French. Buzz played computer games, in American. Sy Cantor looked like a politician. But Buzz Boyd of Laramie, now head of homeland security for the United States of America, really was one.
In Rome, with his huge footballer’s frame sprawled across a reproduction gilt armchair, Buzz seemed to Sy an eruption, a sweaty boil, in his immaculate hotel suite. As VP, Sy had bagged the best rooms, and a view that spread out towards the Vatic
an, with St Peter’s, like a giant bald guy, in the far distance. He’d have to work with Boyd over the next few days. The president had brushed aside his agonised plea to send somebody else. But Sy hadn’t anticipated having Buzz crowding the foreground, actually turning up in the room.
‘Mr Boyd, how do you do that?’ asked Sy. ‘I can’t do that. What’s the secret?’
‘Only pissy people from out east say “Mr Boyd”. I’m Buzz, and not ashamed of it. How do I do what, Mr Vice President?’
‘Sit there with a smile on your face, yet radiating absolute anger and – I don’t know – contempt. The more you smile, the scarier you look. How do you do it?’
‘I dunno. Natural talent, I guess. Enjoy your suite, anyway, I’ve got a pissy little room overlooking the car park. But I guess Rome seems in better shape than I’d expected.’
‘Well, Mr Boyd – Buzz – this isn’t really Rome, you know. This is just a hotel. All the broken-down stuff out there, all the stuff with the roofs gone – that’s ancient Rome. You should take some time out, give it a visit. You might surprise yourself …’
‘The hotel suits me fine, Mr Vice President. I haven’t seen a whole lot of Europe, but what I have seen is enough.’
‘Here we go …’
‘No we don’t. I guess there’s nothing you like more than hanging around art galleries in Paris, or going to the opera to see a bunch of Italian fags. I accuse you, Mr Vice President. I accuse you of watching polo and knowing all the names of the British royal family. How do you plead?’
Cantor whinnied – the kind of noise a thoroughbred racehorse would make if it was trying to laugh at a joke it didn’t find funny.
