One Day in May

by Catherine Alliott

  His eyes lit up as he saw Katya.

  ‘All well?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Yes, fine. Ted Mallory wanted to know if we could reconvene on Tuesday and I said not unless the Whips’ Office could have a say in the final proposal – he said he’d let us know. Colin Mercer called to say yes in theory, but no to the extended budget. Oh, and we need an amendment here –’ she handed him a paper – ‘Section B apparently should read “centralized”, not “ministerial”, and then a signature here…’ she handed him a pen and he scribbled, ‘… and here.’ He signed again. ‘And I’ve cancelled your trip to Delhi on Friday and rearranged it for the following Tuesday so you can still vote on the health bill.’

  Whilst she’d been speaking, periodically punctuating her flow with a proffered piece of paper, he’d nodded, muttered ‘Right’ or ‘OK’ occasionally, but by the time she’d got to the end, his face had cleared.

  ‘Good. Well done. I’m pleased you managed to put the India trip off. Did you check it with his lordship?’

  ‘I did, and then had to ring the world and his wife and rearrange their diaries. But it helped enormously having Hattie. She waded through your correspondence, bless her, whilst I haggled.’

  He turned; seemed to see me almost for the first time. ‘Did she, by Jove? Hattie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you without your mortarboard. How marvellous that you’ve been such a help.’ He smiled and I glowed. ‘I’ve certainly never heard Katya say my attempts at integrating students were anything more than a hindrance. You’ve clearly earned your keep!’

  Another dazzling smile, in which I basked like a salamander, determined to do even more that afternoon.

  ‘I’ve got to dash to the chamber,’ he was saying to Katya, ‘and I thought I’d ask the nursery school question if the Speaker’s on form. What d’you think?’

  ‘I would,’ she urged. ‘Tom Paine was saying the other day that someone’s got to ask it, and it might not be popular, but eventually the Opposition will wonder why we haven’t.’

  ‘Exactly.’ He strode off.

  I gazed at her in awe. Oh… my… God. She wasn’t just a secretary, or even a researcher. She advised. She was trusted, wise. And he not only asked for her advice, he acted on it. My estimation of her went up tenfold as I fell in step behind her and we went up to the gallery. I even wondered, should I invest in American Tan tights?

  Tiny, compact and green, arranged like a chapel but much more raucous, the chamber was brimming with braying MPs waving bits of paper: full, actually, of testosterone, albeit with a few token pink suits and silk scarves scattered around the front benches. I loved it; was spellbound. It was particularly atmospheric today, Katya explained, because a controversial bill was being voted on later tonight, so all elected representatives were present and correct. Questions were being hurled at the Prime Minister, who, leaning confidently on the ballot box, swiped some away like dirty flies but gave others a longer, more considered response. Finally Dominic, looking slightly nervous, smoothed down his tie and got to his feet, but before he could get to the end of his question, he was shouted down by a rude fat man opposite. I bristled indignantly. Dominic forged on none the less, was encouraged to do so by the Speaker, and the Prime Minister had no choice but to reply, albeit in a rather offhand manner, clearly not welcoming criticism from his own benches, and was then jeered by the opposition for the feebleness of his response. I was completely riveted.

  As we saw Dominic on the way out, horribly aware that my eyes were shining, I couldn’t help but put my hand on his arm as he hurried away.

  ‘Can I just say I thought you were fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. He may have pretended to dismiss you, but you really rattled him.’

  He’d been striding off down the corridor with a couple of cronies and they all turned to look at me in wonder. The other two threw back their heads and roared.

  ‘Well, someone’s got your vote, Dominic. Even if the rest of us are agin you!’

  Much baying and waistcoat slapping at what I realized must have sounded corny and gushing, but Dominic’s eyes, although amused, were kind.

  ‘Thank you. At least some of my office recognize a killer question when they hear it.’

  More snorts of derision greeted this, and then they strode off in a wall of grey flannel, but not before Dominic had turned to flash a smile over his shoulder.

  The week went by: flew, from my point of view, but, happily, I was there for another. The second would go even faster, I knew, and I tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about going home, when on day twelve – and I swear to God I didn’t touch her – a minor miracle occurred. The sort of thing that never happens to me. Katya put her back out. The previous evening, in her flat in Vauxhall, she’d tried to clean her French windows, fallen off her stool, and was now doubled up in agony. She didn’t come in the following day, and was then off work for another two, which was unheard of, Dominic told me. She’d never had a day sick in five years. That afternoon at five, she rang to say she couldn’t walk: wouldn’t be in for at least a fortnight.

  Of course I didn’t take over. I wouldn’t have had a clue. But a competent temp who worked regularly at the Commons stepped in, and Dominic asked me to stay two more weeks to help with the typing. Just before Katya was due to return, he thanked the temp: asked if I’d been a help.

  ‘Of course she has. You know, this is the only whip’s office that doesn’t have backup. I can’t understand how Katya does it all. I certainly couldn’t be doing without a typist.’

  Well, it could have been worded better. ‘Without Hattie’s incisive judgement and invaluable political acumen’ perhaps, but the point had been made.

  When Katya returned she went into his office for a word – quite a long word – and came out pink and flustered.

  ‘Right. Well.’ She patted her hair. ‘You’ve obviously done rather well. Dominic wants you to stay on to help out, although I’m sure you’ve got other career plans. Don’t want to be a typist for ever. After all, you’re a graduate.’

  ‘Oh, no, I’d be delighted.’

  ‘Would you now. Right, well, pop in,’ she said crisply. ‘He wants to see you.’

  Dumbly I walked to the door. I’d barely been in this hallowed, book-lined sanctuary, Katya had seen to that, and certainly not when he’d been in it. Dominic was behind a huge leather-topped desk, signing papers, and I thought how young he looked to be in such an important position, with such weighty responsibility. He looked up and smiled as I approached.

  ‘White smoke?’

  ‘Oh, thanks.’ I whipped out my Marlboro Lights and lit up, perching on a chair.

  ‘No,’ he laughed. ‘You know, when they choose a pope? Except I hope I’ve chosen a typist.’

  Shit. I looked around for somewhere to stub it out. Heavens, I’d thought we were settling down for a clubby moment with cigars.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, puff away,’ he said. ‘I’m not averse.’

  I held the wretched cigarette low; so low the smoke billowed around me as if my ankles were on fire.

  ‘Of course you may not want it, but I’ve been aware for some time Katya has too much to do, so if you could see your way clear to becoming full-time dogsbody – I’m afraid that’s what it’ll amount to to begin with: tea lady, photocopying—’

  ‘Oh, no, I’d love to,’ I burst in. ‘Honestly, it’s my dream.’

  ‘Really?’ He looked at me with new interest. ‘I didn’t know. Did you read Politics? Here.’

  He handed me a saucer for my cigarette and I stubbed the wretched thing out.

  ‘No, English. And I don’t know the first thing about politics, but I love working here and I’m sure I’ll develop an interest.’ I licked my lips. Took it more slowly. ‘I mean – I’m already very interested. My dad’s a journalist,’ I threw in widly, ‘so it’s always been a kind of… family thing.’

  ‘Oh? Called?’

  ‘David Carrington.’

  ‘Ah, right.’
He frowned; leaned back in his chair and tapped a pencil thoughtfully on his blotter. ‘Good of you to mention it. Many people might not.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, your father’s very left wing, Hattie. The Guardian is not necessarily my paper of choice.’

  ‘No. Of course not.’ Damn. Why was I so clueless? ‘But… he’s a very fair man. And it doesn’t really matter who’s on what side, does it? I mean if we all want a better country? Eventually?’

  ‘Noo,’ he said slowly. ‘Although I suppose I’d want to know you’re fundamentally on our side. But I agree, essentially we should all be after the same thing, the common good. Which personally I see as a better education for all.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t agree more.’

  ‘Our schools are chaotic.’

  ‘Ghastly.’

  ‘Some are downright disgraceful.’

  ‘Crap.’

  I was nervous, OK?

  ‘I mean, I was lucky enough to have a very privileged education. But the majority don’t, and it breaks my heart.’

  ‘Mine too,’ I said firmly.

  ‘Really? Where did you go?’

  I thought quickly. I had any number to choose from. Laura always said St Mary’s on the grounds that it sounded private though it was in fact state, Kit plumped for one in upstate New York (two terms), but I tended to gauge it to whoever I was talking to.

  ‘Stockwell Comprehensive.’

  ‘Really?’ I could see he was impressed. ‘Well, your father clearly put his money where his mouth was.’

  ‘We didn’t have any money.’

  ‘No. Quite. So you know the situation then. Know the problems.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ I said gravely. ‘Terrible place.’ I’d had a ball at Stockwell. An absolute ball. Had made masses of friends of all creeds and cultures and found it far more lively and vibrant than any of the stuffy convents I’d been to.

  ‘Well, that’s my particular hobbyhorse, gripping the inner-city comprehensives. And how fascinating that you’ve got first-hand knowledge. Presumably quite recently?’

  ‘Yes, I only left a few years ago.’

  He stared at me, almost in awe, as a botanist might a rare orchid. I felt myself glow. Felt many cosy hours of glue- sniffing-drugs-and-knives chat coming on, with me as his inside girl. Perhaps on that sofa over there, legs tucked kittenishly beneath me as I filled him in on yoof culture. Showed him how to roll a… no, perhaps not. I listened as he went on to outline the job, which, as I already knew, was pretty much bang that computer, and then he got up and turned to the window, which meant I got to look at the back of him. I swallowed.

  ‘One more thing. Katya is… very protective of her position here, and frankly marvellous. I suppose the reason it’s taken me a while to hire anyone to help is I’ve been sensitive to her feelings: of her wanting to do it all herself.’ He turned. Gave me a searching smile.

  ‘That’s only natural. This is her patch. You’re very much her baby.’

  ‘Figuratively speaking.’

  ‘Of course. Like the Pope.’

  I was quite pleased with that little sally. He looked bemused, then smiled. ‘She’s already admitted you’ve been a huge help. But I just wanted you to be aware of…’ He looked awkward.

  ‘Her toes?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I won’t step on them.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He grinned at me and I grinned back, an understanding arrived at. In fact I’d go so far as to call it a meeting of minds. After a few minor incidentals, like money and hours and time sheets, I left, on air. Positively hovering.

  When I resumed my position, Katya, I could see, was wrestling with herself.

  ‘I’m so pleased,’ she said as I sat down. She was trying hard. ‘Really, I mean it. I know I’m overprotective and I know it had to be someone, eventually, and I’m glad it’s you.’

  I saw her eyes glisten and knew, in that moment, she was in love with him. I also knew ‘I’m glad it’s you’ meant, not someone more his age. I was still very young and gauche and scruffy. What she didn’t want was some sophisticated thirtysomething desk-perching and crossing her legs, flicking back a mane of expensively highlighted hair, and reeking of Chanel.

  I think she might have seen my flash of recognition, because she went on hurriedly: ‘Of course, you must meet Letty now. She’s delightful, and terribly friendly.’

  Well, I’d already met her at the graduation, but meet her again I did, that very Friday.

  Dominic thought it was important I had an all-round view of the job, and that meant going to his constituency, where he disappeared to most Fridays. Who was I to demur? Apparently it was where his surgery was.

  ‘Makes you sound like a doctor,’ I said as we purred down the M40 to Thame in his rather sporty low-slung car. He was looking fairly sporty and low-slung himself in jeans, a checked shirt open over a white T-shirt, sleeves rolled up, tanned arms at the wheel. So unlike an MP I could hardly breathe. I lifted my legs off the seat beside him to make them look less fat.

  ‘Well, in a way it’s not dissimilar. Local people come to me with their worries and I try to sort them out. The problem is, by the time they get to me, they’ve exhausted every other avenue. I’m their last hope. They’ve already harangued the council, or their school, or local authority, but I do what I can. And to be honest that’s the bit I love most, the bit that makes it seem slightly…’ he hesitated.

  ‘Vocational?’ I offered.

  ‘Yes.’ He glanced at me, pleased. ‘When I get a result, I feel like punching the air. Feel I’ve really made a difference.’

  Aware I was staring, I closed my mouth.

  ‘Although, of course, you do get the occasional oddball who comes regularly, and you know there’s no hope of ever helping them. Barking Brenda is my particular cross to bear. She runs the village shop and thinks it’s possessed. She wants me to exorcise it. The Church have washed their hands of her, but she’s convinced things are moving of their own accord – baked beans into the freezer, shampoo mysteriously appearing in the fridge – although in fact it’s just her losing her marbles and forgetting she’s put them there.’

  ‘Oh! Sad.’

  ‘Very, and what she really needs is a doctor, but then she might be sectioned, and is she really ready to be? She might lose her shop too, where she’s worked all her life.’ He shook his head. ‘The whole thing is fraught. But if everyone pulls together – MP, GP, vicar – we just might be able to help her, and that’s how it should be. Everyone working together to create a better community, a better way of life.’

  It seemed to me his hair had grown to his shoulders and he wore white flowing robes; a halo round his head. He was saviour, no doubt about it. I was working for a saviour, who’d come down to earth in the body of Johnny Depp.

  He was swinging the wheel about expertly now, negotiating some winding country lanes, the sun on his face. It occurred to me I had my own vocational family member to draw on.

  ‘My brother, Kit, feels like that. Giving something back and all that. He’s in Bosnia.’

  ‘Really?’ He turned, surprised.

  ‘Working for the International Red Cross. He’s eighteen.’

  ‘Good grief, that’s brave. Even though they’re diplomatically protected that’s bloody dangerous.’

  ‘I know.’ I felt myself clench inside instantly. I didn’t want to be told Kit was brave. To have his danger confirmed by one who knew. In fact, I wished I’d kept quiet. But Kit had rung last night, and was therefore on my mind. I turned to stare out of the window to ward off further conversation; tried not to think about my little brother, whose gap year adventure had turned into a nightmare.

  A month in Florence had been the plan, plus a couple of weeks travelling round Italy, with a boy from school. But this boy’s cousin worked for the UN, and he’d announced, when the six weeks was up, that he was going to cross the border, to help his cousin in Croatia. The ICRC needed volunteers, he sa
id, and he couldn’t look at any more Botticellis or knock back any more Bellinis while fifty miles away – fewer, even – a war was going on. I remembered the boy: very bright, focused, heading for Oxford; knew he’d be shot through with conviction. Kit, conversely, was a blithe, handsome, possibly even frivolous soul, certainly unencumbered by any social conscience, but he’d gone along for the ride; for the craic as they say in Ireland.

  ‘Can you imagine how this will look on my CV? How many other fledgeling ad execs with have “Aid worker in Sarajevo” he’d said down the line to Dad from Florence. ‘Looks a bit grittier than work experience in Harrods, don’t you think?’ He’d got an awful lot more on his CV than he’d bargained for.

  Most of the time we heard nothing, but when he did ring, he sounded strained, far away. Last night he’d got me on my mobile and we’d made a show of chatting about incidentals, Laura’s new flat, his sunburn.

  But then he’d said, apropos of nothing, ‘Did you know that there are concentration camps out here?’ his voice attempting to be airily matter-of-fact. ‘That’s what they say, anyway. The stories you hear, the ones that come out…’ he’d faltered and I’d sat up very straight. ‘And us lot, the Red Cross. God, it sounds great, doesn’t it? Red Cross – like the Seventh Cavalry or something, roaring in with ambulances. But it’s tiny, minuscule. And… and anyway, what can you do?’ My little brother. Sounding terribly lost and far away.

  I gave myself a little inward shake as I sped down the lanes in Dominic’s Alpha Romeo, brambles brushing the sides of the car. Tried to dispel all gloomy thoughts of camps and ambulances. I didn’t want to go there. Where Kit was: a dusty, war-torn country, awash with despair. I wanted to be here, now, beside my attractive new boss in his sexy convertible, on the way to his sumptuous country pad: I wanted life to be optimistic and glowing with possibility.

  After a bit the lanes got narrower. One, I noticed, even had grass growing down the middle. We were well off the beaten track.

  ‘Here we are,’ he announced, as we turned off through an open five-barred gate.

  A pink house, long and low, thatched and creeper-strewn, with roses crawling round the two bay windows either side of the front door sat centrally in a gravel sweep. It was beautiful but modest. Not a sod-off house, but a comfortable family one, the sort of thing Laura and I would have given our eyeteeth to grow up in. I got out, trying not to look too enchanted.