The Image in the Water

by Douglas Hurd

  ‘Steady,’ murmured the chief football editor.

  ‘Circulation down again,’ agreed his assistant, but not audibly.

  From tomorrow we are going to change all that. From tomorrow Thunder is going to present the two candidates, not as cardboard politicians mouthing speeches but as real three-dimensional human beings. We are going to dig deep into their past. We are not interested in prurient peeping. That is not our way. But we mean to show what kind of personality is going to lead the nation. So wake up, Joan. Wake up, Roger. For tomorrow we’re going to wake up Britain.

  There was silence. It did not seem to amount to much. Macdowell found the words. ‘Good stuff, Joe. But it all depends on the follow-up. You must have something good in the locker.’

  Seebright was at his most businesslike. ‘For Joan, not difficult. She saved a crippled boy from drowning in the river at Cambridge. A bit of time ago. She was nineteen, the lad five. Cambridge Evening News the next day. No one’s ever picked it up since.’

  ‘She told you?’ It was not like Joan Freetown.

  ‘No. David Alcester came round yesterday. The young MP. He’s trying to grip her campaign. He sounded a bit desperate. We’ve checked with the Cambridgeshire police. It’s okay. That’ll be in Thursday.’ Today was Tuesday.

  ‘And Roger Courtauld?’

  ‘A rather different story, I’m afraid.’ Seebright smirked, then handed out one print of a colour photograph, which he carefully collected and replaced in an envelope when it had done the rounds. It showed sea and in the foreground a stretch of white sand. Two young men in swimming trunks were lying side by side on the same blue and white beach towel, eyes shut, apparently asleep, thighs touching. The right hand of one clasped the left hand of the other. No one recognised the fair young man with a magazine lying beside him. Though the photograph might have been forty years old, there could be no doubt about the identification of the second youth. Roger Courtauld’s shoulders had been straighter then and his cheeks less chubby, but there was no mistaking the big head, tightly curled dark hair, and slightly crowded features.

  ‘How does this come into it?’ asked Macdowell. His conscience began to stir, always ready to start arguments it never won.

  ‘It depends,’ said Seebright.

  ‘Depends?’

  ‘On the way things develop.’

  They were friends, that was the odd thing, though five days ago they had hardly known each other. No, that was a slight exaggeration, thought Roger Courtauld, as his campaign committee filed into his room at the top of the Home Office for the morning meeting. Most of them had known each other for a time as political acquaintances, nodding and smiling in corridors and the tea room, forming ephemeral alliances to sign a motion, influence a debate, or exchange current gossip at political dining clubs such as the Bow Group or One Nation. But this was different. After less than a week of the leadership campaign they knew each other under the skin. They were brothers at arms, or rather brothers and sister at arms, for he must never forget Sara Tunstall. Fair and flouncy, she was the most right-wing of his supporters and he still did not know what had brought her into his camp. Was it simply dislike and jealousy of Joan Freetown? Roger feared that quite a lot of his votes in the Commons would come from that unflattering source. One or two other supporters regarded themselves as jockeys who had chosen Roger Courtauld as the horse to take them to their own chosen winning post. That was certainly true of Clive Wilson, the typical ambitious backbencher. He had made himself a name in the Russian civil war by being in the right place at the right time – but not quite enough of a name to propel him into a ministerial job at the Foreign Office without the help of a patron. Roger made a mental note that he must not neglect Wilson just because he did not like him.

  But the others – Peter Struther, Raymond Gannet, both MPs, the PR man John Parrott, Simon Cresswick from the Lords – what had brought them to take the risk of identifying themselves with what, at the beginning, seemed like a losing cause? Which led, of course, back to a previous question: what had led him, Roger Courtauld, to put himself forward?

  The whole contest was distinctly odd. He and Joan Freetown were colleagues in the same Cabinet. There had been no great rows between them. Each had respected the, other’s frontiers; they stood on a shared government record; they were both committed to the projects of the late Russell administration. Though he had not much liked Joan’s latest Budget he could not attack it because she had bounced it through Cabinet in his presence. Yet if the contest was to interest anyone they had to find something to disagree on. How otherwise were the columnists to find material and their campaign committees something to discuss? So the two rivals were forced back onto the terrain of philosophy and first principles. In their press articles, speeches and interviews they had to argue about the underlying purpose of politics.

  Here Joan Freetown had the advantage. Her beliefs were long prepared, well tailored, hanging in the cupboard ready for immediate use. That was not to say that she was consistent, for her philosophy and her practical policies often disagreed. For example, though by nature isolationist, in Simon Russell’s last weeks she had joined Roger in forcing on the Prime Minister and the Cabinet British intervention with others in the Russian civil war. But that was in return for Roger’s support for her public-expenditure plans, which had been an essential preliminary to her generous Budget, which in turn was a platform for her real beliefs. Luck had been with her on this bargain. The Russian war was petering out, the British troops would soon be home, and she could go back to denouncing the Europeans, the UN, the Scots and anyone who tried to draw Britain into humanitarian wars. She combined a pro-market free-trade approach to economics with a fierce English nationalism. She had plenty of sources to quote in support of both parts of this equation, even if they sometimes hung oddly together. In style she was definite, often abrasive, and clear; on moral matters impeccable.

  Against this what had Roger to offer? Day by day he was forced to find answers to this question. At Exeter University his love had been ancient history. In particular he had devoted himself to the Roman empire. Straight roads, legions, eagles, central heating, universal language and law, almost identical cities planted in the Syrian desert and the waste of northern England appealed to an uncomplicated youthful mind depressed by the anarchy of the modern world. Immensa Romanae pads maiestas – the huge majesty of the Roman peace. It was a strong and recurring thought.

  But not much use once he had entered the Commons as MP for South Northamptonshire at the age of thirty. There was no huge majesty about the British peace, or indeed anyone else’s. He quickly abandoned any scheme of political ideas in favour of Tony Blair’s question: ‘What works?’ The difficulty, he decided, lay not in hatching ideas but in getting through the improvements that observation and common sense showed to be needed. Eventually promoted by Russell to the Home Office, he had found it apt for this approach. Police, probation, criminal justice, asylum and refugees: plenty of learned folk argued theory on all these matters, but all theory faded when faced with under-recruitment, occasional corruption, relentless pressure groups, press sensations, public expectations. He aimed at and achieved a reputation for cutting knots, for getting things done. The nature of these things seemed of lesser importance. That was the reputation which had brought him so far up the political tree, one leap away from the top. Behind this piled-up work and practical reputation, there was gradually forming a more liberal and humanitarian approach to politics, such as had led him to press for British intervention in Russia. But there was nothing yet that could convincingly be distilled into a thousand words in the Daily Telegraph or a cogent address to cynical backbenchers. ‘Courtauld keeps his feet on the ground’; ‘Courtauld sees things straight, and sees them through’; ‘Courtauld gets the best out of the machine.’ That was what his friends said in the tea room. For the time being he would have to be content with it.

  The Home Secretary’s office was shaped and furnished like the lounge of a 19
50s transatlantic liner. Large armchairs covered in light tweed were anchored round two large glass tables, designed to carry heavy onyx ashtrays – removed several years ago on public-health grounds. A sinuous rubber plant opposite the main door tried to slither sideways out of its terracotta pot. Both armchairs and plant looked strong against any ocean storm. Under Courtauld’s regime the walls were sparsely lined with Dufy and Matisse prints. A cupboard in the Private Office outside contained a set of Boys prints of traditional London, including the old Home Office in Whitehall. These were offered to incoming home secretaries, usually from the Labour Party, who might have less progressive tastes in art. It was not thought likely that any home secretary would wish to move beyond Matisse.

  Roger Courtauld, who had been at work an hour already, left his desk at one end of the room and took the armchair that had been left for him.

  ‘Right, press first, as usual.’ This was for John Parrott.

  ‘Much of the same, Roger, except for the piece in Thunder. You’ve probably read it already.’ But he handed it round. ‘Joe Seebright is obviously up to something personal. That’s his speciality of course. My contacts at Thunder are screwed tight this morning. I can get nothing from them. I don’t like the sound of it.’

  Nor did any of them. Seebright was an enemy. It was one thing to believe, as they all did, that Roger Courtauld was an intelligent and honourable man who was well fitted to lead the country. It was another to suppose that during his adult life he had done nothing small or great, in private or public, that could be used by Thunder to present him in poor light. Against that extreme test, who could be saved?

  ‘Perhaps I should intervene here, Secretary of State. This has just come round by hand.’ John Upchurch had been Roger’s principal private secretary for three years. He was a meticulous civil servant verging on middle age, who had developed a talent for bureaucratic work and a sound judgement in the rather narrow range of criminal justice decisions that came regularly to be settled in the Home Office. He had been dismayed at first by his new master. By the time he became Home Secretary Roger Courtauld knew that in real life you got the right things done by varying your pace, cutting occasional corners and listening to worthwhile people outside the government machine. Sometimes you had to work appallingly hard; at other times, if you were to keep going as a human being, you had to break away from work and look after your children, your love of music or your bowling average.

  These things Upchurch had slowly learned and reluctantly accepted. As an impartial civil servant he had, as a matter of principle, no part to play in the current party contest for the premiership. But in practice he was fascinated, and kept as close to it as possible. He attended the morning campaign meetings to maintain, as he said outside, essential liaison and ensure that the work of the office did not suffer. He did not utter at these meetings except on occasional matters of fact and procedure, of which this was one.

  Roger Courtauld read to himself the letter Upchurch handed to him, then read it aloud to the rest of them.

  Thunder

  22 March

  Dear Roger (if I may make so bold),

  I understand that long ago you were for several summers in the habit of taking holidays on the South Devon coast just short of Plymouth. A lovely part of England – you showed better taste than many politicians! In particular you were there during July 1986. It was in that month that the enclosed photograph was taken by a Mr Reynolds, who had rented a cottage on the same estate as yours and who used the same private beach. He formed a habit of taking beach photographs, which he kept. Recently in looking through his collection he came across this particular print, which he has sent to us with the negative. I should add that Mr Reynolds now holds office in the South Hams Conservative Association and is a strong supporter of Joan Freetown. He appears to think that there is or should be some relationship between this photograph and your own views on marriage and the family. At this stage I would not go so far as that. But as you know we at Thunder see it our duty to explore fully all aspects of the character of the two candidates for the premiership. I have taken no decision yet on the publication of this photograph, and should be grateful for your comments, in particular any details you may wish to give us about the relationship it evidently reveals.

  Yours ever,

  Joe (Seebright)

  After they had heard the letter, they saw the enclosed print. It came as an anticlimax. They waited for Roger.

  ‘The print is genuine.’

  ‘You remember the occasion?’

  ‘Vividly.’ He paused, looked at them. Yes, he had to treat them like friends. ‘It was like this.’

  Shit! Shit! Shit! This absurd disaster was for TV sitcoms, not for real life, certainly not for lucky, intelligent, twenty-year-old Roger Courtauld – but now it was happening, and to him. How did they react in sitcoms? He picked up a plate and threw it at the door through which the girl with a spotty face had just left. The plate shattered and fell to the floor. Close-up to the hero; his good-looking features contorted with anger and thwarted lust.

  Returning to everyday prose, Roger Courtauld read again the note that the girl had brought.

  Roger

  You will hate me for a bit but I am NOT coming with you to Mothecombe this evening. There is no particular reason. It is just that I have decided better not. By the time Deirdre gives you this I will be miles away from Exeter. I expect we will meet again next term. Perhaps we can be friends, ordinary friends. I have enjoyed our time together, but it leads nowhere.

  Yours,

  Sylvia

  God, where did she pick up that trashy false/simple style? Rosamunde Pilcher, Joanna Trollope, even Jilly Cooper? And he had been so sure. His aged green Vauxhall outside was packed high with food and drink, sheets for the big bed, plus a TV in case it rained, the set at the cottage being deeply defective. Sylvia was as unlike her spotty flatmate as possible. Her long slender legs were the most beautiful he had ever seen. Only yesterday …

  ‘There must be a reason. You must tell me.’

  He had tried to coax Deirdre, sitting her down on the only unbroken chair in the kitchen offering a vodka and tonic, boiling the kettle when she said she preferred Nescafé, trying not to notice her spots.

  ‘Is there someone else?’

  Now he, too, was drifting into this bogus romantic prose.

  ‘I really can’t say. She doesn’t talk to me about such things.’

  Liar. But Deirdre had never been his friend. She had once almost surprised them in bed together in the university flat that she and Sylvia shared. Almost, because by the time Deirdre had entered the bedroom Roger was represented only by a dent in the bedclothes. Having dressed quickly and quietly in the loo, he had managed to slip out without confronting her. That incident had been the deciding argument for jerking the relationship out of its present pattern of hurried and uncomfortable activity. The expansion of the English universities meant that someone was always entering or leaving the room where he and Sylvia were together, either in her flat in Exeter or the farmhouse which he shared with four others five miles out. So he had organised this end-of-term weekend at Mothecombe, the holiday cottage near the sea that his family had bought ten years ago. His parents and sister would not arrive until Tuesday. He had offered to go four days earlier ‘to get the place ready’. He did not suppose that his parents, let alone his sister, were deceived, but they were a broad-minded lot.

  Sylvia wore her dark hair long, though this was not the fashion. It shone as in the shampoo ads. Her eyes were a particularly bright china blue. When those eyes smiled and she produced her soft, sexy laugh, paradise was near.

  Had she been bored by his conversation? She was not interested in politics, though she sat up and paid attention whenever Margaret Thatcher appeared on television. After one conversation Roger had bought her a couple of paperbacks about constitutional reform. Had that been an error? Another time he had tried to talk to her about the Romans, had even suggested that they
go to Rome together in the spring. She had listened and after a bit smiled and touched his hand. Nothing had come of that. But surely he had not overdone the tutorials. They had gone often to the cinema, she had beaten him at tennis, they had walked on Dartmoor in pouring rain, and once made love in a slightly muddy field with buttercups and two cows. All this, Roger had thought when viewing matters from afar, was going reasonably well. The next step was to introduce the most beautiful person he knew to the most beautiful place he knew. In a way it would be a test of both.

  And now the test was off, the goal gone, the weekend ruined. Roger read the letter for the third time, and found a straw to clutch at.

  ‘I have enjoyed our time together, but it leads nowhere.’

  What if he showed where it could lead? Was she prodding him forward? He found a pen, and scrawled at the foot of her note,

  S

  Marry me tomorrow.

  R

  He looked at this for half a minute, then tore the whole lot up. On practical grounds, he told himself. God knows where Sylvia had gone. Her mother was dead, her father wandered round Antibes and St Tropez in the summer. There was no reaching her. Later he did not regret tearing up the letter. Sleeping with a pair of legs, plus long dark hair, even china blue eyes was one thing, marriage quite another.

  Roger was still in high frustration, but decisions began to flow from him logically. He swept up the bits of the plate he had broken and finished the glass of vodka he had started while talking to Deirdre. He found space in the car for eight or nine textbooks on the Roman empire, which he had excluded from his main packing as unsuitable for the weekend as planned. He swallowed a hunk of brown bread and Cheddar cheese. He washed up dirty plates in the sink and left a note for his absent house-mates saying he would be back on Monday for the final end-of-term clear up.

  As he drove the twenty-five miles to the sea it began to rain. The vodka inside him and the fact that the windscreen wipers of the Vauxhall did not work made it a dangerous journey. The final track down to the cottage was turning to mud. The car slithered and almost hit a tree. Roger wrenched it straight and came to rest outside the back door. Stumbling through the rain he found the key under the third flowerpot to the right.