He moved closer, and she was forced to look into his small blue eyes, bright against the fake tan. A thin smile spread across his face.
“Still,” he continued, “once we’re in government, maybe you can help us out some more!”
Jennifer held his gaze, determined not to look away. He laughed and strode off, becoming lost in a crowd of his own MPs.
After passing the hard-faced Whips with just five other Labour MPs, she sidled back to her seat. Maggie joined her. She’d seen the encounter with Trask.
“Ugh,” she said. “I hate that man even more than I hate Michael Stuart.”
Jennifer felt her stomach hollow out at the words. This wasn’t about hating anyone.
There was a low hum, mutters making their way round the chamber; speculation, calculations. John and Michael took their places at the front, stony-faced.
Finally, the Whips entered and the door was closed behind them. In a row four abreast, they moved towards the speaker. Jennifer watched them shuffle into place, knowing that the order in which they stood would give away the result.
As they settled into position, she felt her chest tighten. The House quietened and the Whip on the far right spoke.
“Ayes to the right, three hundred and one. Noes to the left, three hundred and two.”
We’ve won, thought Jennifer, her heart pounding.
A thunderous roar of voices and hands pounding on seat backs rose around her. Her skin tightened. What had she done?
Just six Labour MPs had voted against the government. Had one of them switched sides, or even abstained, the vote would have gone the other way.
A man in front of her turned and glared. “Hope you’re happy now.”
Part III
October 2020
25
April 2021. London
“My government will introduce legislation enabling people to save for their own retirement, and be less dependent on the state…”
Six weeks and one forced election later, and it was the one time that MPs were allowed to enter the chamber of the House of Lords. In front of Jennifer were rows upon rows of peers, their finery gleaming under the lights. The MPs looked drab by comparison, packed in together like cattle. If they thought the Commons was crowded, this was worse.
It was the first Queen’s Speech of Leonard Trask’s new government. At the front of the crowd of MPs were Trask and Michael Stuart, forced for once to be friendly, to walk together through the corridor dividing the two houses and stand side by side while the Queen made a seemingly endless speech detailing Trask’s plans.
Jennifer was surrounded by Labour MPs, a meagre bunch now. Most of the Cabinet – Shadow Cabinet, she reminded herself – were gone, and Michael was clinging onto the leadership despite mutterings that he should go. The party was haemorrhaging members, disgusted by his willingness to sell short their ideals, and things were looking bleak.
Three rows ahead, right behind Michael, was John. His face was calm but he was staring at the back of Michael’s head. Jennifer had a good idea what he was thinking.
That morning, reluctant to face her office, she had taken a walk up Whitehall, glancing towards Downing Street as she passed on the opposite side. In there would be Trask, plotting for the day with his ministers and assorted underlings. She tried to push the thought of her enemies around the Cabinet table from her mind.
She arrived at Trafalgar Square. Ready to rest and throw some caffeine into her system, she spotted a line of commuters outside a corner coffee shop and joined the fast moving queue. Latte in hand, she cast around for somewhere quiet to sit. The coffee shop was dark and cavernous and it was difficult to make out which tables were occupied. Voices rose up, bubbling towards the ceiling with its frescoes and fake ageing. The tourists liked it, she imagined.
“Jennifer!” A man’s voice came from the depths of the shop. He had his back to Jennifer but was watching her in a greyed out mirror that loomed over his table.
She approached him, her gaze flitting between the back of his head and his reflected face in the mirror. She forced a smile. “John.”
He stood and turned, grabbing her hand for slightly too long. His grip was warm and solid and he was smiling, his eyes crinkling.
“Good to see you. Please,” he gestured at the table with a broad sweep of his arm. “Join me.”
She lowered her tray to the table and lifted her cup, taking care not to spill anything this time. She propped her tray against the table leg, waiting for a lecture.
“How are you? How’s Yusuf? The kids?”
The election campaign had brought them together; Yusuf had taken time off to help with canvassing and even Samir had managed to knock on a few doors for her. She’d been relieved to hold her seat, despite Labour losing power. Yusuf’s work on the council would become more important now, as Labour still held the city.
“Fine, thanks. You?”
“Well, I’ve surprised myself, but I feel great. Less stressed than I have for years.”
He was right. The bags under his eyes had receded and his skin had lost its unearthly pallor. His voice was clearer too.
“Er, OK. I thought you’d hate being in Opposition.”
He laughed under his breath. “That’s the thing. So did I. Dreaded it, after that vote, when you—” Jennifer’s cheeks grew hot. “Well, let’s not talk about that, eh? Anyway, turns out it’s been a tonic.” He slurped his drink. “Sheila says it’s the first time in years she hasn’t had to worry about me dropping dead of a heart attack.” He paused and licked his lips. “I’ve even found the energy to stand up to Michael.” He cocked his head, still looking at her.
“You?” Jennifer replied. “Surely you’ve never had problems standing up to anyone?”
His smile broadened into a smirk. “Aha, you don’t know me as well as you thought you did. Let’s just say Michael could have done with a few more people standing up to him. People like you even.”
Her eyes widened.
“Hang on, John,” she said, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, “you hated me for what I did. Told me I’d ruined your career.”
He waved a hand in dismissal. “That! That was the strain talking. Not your fault. Michael’s.”
She paused to take this in. John was still working with Michael – he’d stayed on as Shadow Home Secretary after the election – and there were rumours he might take over as Party Leader.
“So you weren’t as supportive of Michael as you said you were?”
He looked at her in the way Samir would when she said something stupid.
“No, Jennifer. Publicly, yes, of course. But privately. Well, I had a fair bit of respect for the stand you took.”
“But I brought down the government!” she hissed, aware that the next table was only a few metres away.
“Michael did that, by announcing that bloody stupid confidence vote. I tried to talk him out of it.”
This was news to Jennifer.
“Really?”
He nodded.
Hindsight was a wonderful thing, she considered. “So where does that leave you now?”
He smiled. “Oh, I’ll carry on. For now.” He tapped his nose. “But as for the future, well who knows, eh?”
Jennifer allowed herself a smile. Party leader, maybe? He’d certainly be an improvement. She wondered how he planned to do it, whether there was to be a night of the long knives or if Michael was already planning his resignation.
She shook her head. This time, she wasn’t getting involved.
“What about the Queen’s Speech?” she said, changing the subject. “Know anything about what’s going to be in it?”
“…My government will introduce measures to increase security and combat radicalisation…”
And now they were listening to that speech, to what Leonard Trask was planning. Including a harsher version of the immigration bill Jennifer had fought so hard to defeat. She watched John and wondered what he was plotting as his eyes bore into his leader’s
back.
26
April 2021. London and Birmingham
“Is this seat taken?”
Jennifer looked up from her newspaper. A tall neat woman with dark hair scraped back into a ponytail was smiling at her, gesturing at the seat opposite. Surprised, she looked around the train carriage. Every other table had at least two occupants.
She smiled. “No. Help yourself.”
“Thank you.” The woman stowed a black leather holdall on the shelf above and dropped into the seat. Jennifer watched through her eyelashes. She knew this woman; they were currently working together on a bill committee, scrutinising an education bill before its third reading. They’d spent long hours cooped up in committee rooms together and had even visited a school. They were on friendly terms and Jennifer found herself warming to this woman, despite being from different parties.
Catherine Moore was the Tory candidate who’d defeated Jack Scholes, MP for the semi-rural seat next door but one to Jennifer’s. A Labour seat for twenty years but now – since her betrayal – Tory.
Jennifer smiled. “I didn’t know you took this train.”
“Well, I don’t normally make it, but today everything fell into place. I didn’t leave my bag in the cloakroom like I often do, is the main reason.”
The Members’ Cloakroom was an archaic space, with members’ hooks arranged alphabetically by constituency and a pink ribbon on each hook that was designed to hold a sword. No one was allowed in it except the members themselves, not even staff.
“I’m a bit of an admirer of yours, you know.”
Jennifer let the paper drop. Why a Tory first termer should be an admirer, she had no idea.
“That’s kind of you. Unwarranted, but thank you.”
“Oh I know you probably think I’m a bit odd, admiring someone across the floor, as it were. And it’s not because of…” she hesitated, “…it’s not because of how they say you helped us get into power.”
Jennifer frowned.
“Sorry, that came out wrong.” She was blushing, rubbing her palms on her skirt. “What I meant to say was that I admire your strength, your courage. I’ve been watching you on the committee; you’re tenacious, but reasonable. I’d like to be a politician like you. Someone who doesn’t abandon what she thinks is right.” Another hesitation, her cheeks reddening further. “Does that make sense? I mean it as a compliment. Really.”
Jennifer half-smiled, thinking of similar conversations with party activists. But this was the first time with someone who’d benefited from her treachery.
“Thank you. I’m really not sure I deserve any admiration. But if you don’t mind…” She glanced down at her paper, hoping to make it clear that she had work to do.
Catherine’s blush spread to her neck. “Of course. Me too. I’m sorry.”
An hour later an announcement came over the tannoy. A train was stuck between Rugby and Coventry and they were being diverted. Apologies for the disruption to your journey, etcetera.
Jennifer gazed through the smeared window at the dark fields creeping by, the dim shapes of Rugby’s new solar array. She placed the papers she’d been reading on the table, careful to cover them with her newspaper, and pinched her nose, breathing deeply. A headache was forming behind her temples.
The guard bustled past, pausing to answer questions from disgruntled passengers. What snippets she managed to catch didn’t tell her anything new. She slipped her phone out of her bag and sent Yusuf a quick message, then rooted around inside the bag for painkillers. Nothing.
She looked across at her companion, who was reading a novel. Jennifer couldn’t remember when she’d last had the time or mental energy for that. Jennifer coughed and Catherine looked up.
“Excuse me, but you don’t have any painkillers with you by any chance?”
A smile spread across Catherine’s face. “Of course. Let me find something for you.”
She heaved her handbag onto the table between them and delved into it, placing items on the table as she discarded them: a green leather purse, a charging brick, a scuffed mobile phone. She pulled out a clear plastic makeup bag that bulged with foundation, blusher, mascara, more than one bottle of nail varnish and plenty of medicine packets. Jennifer watched in silence.
Catherine placed two packets on the table.
“Paracetamol or Ibuprofen?” she asked.
“Paracetamol, please.”
She slid the packet across the table. “Keep it. Just in case. Let me get you some water.”
The trolley was approaching. Catherine flagged it down for a bottle of water and Jennifer thanked her, keeping quiet about the bottle she had in her own bag.
“Thanks,” she repeated, feeling awkward.
“Not a problem. I can tell you when we’re at New Street, if you want to sleep.”
Jennifer thanked her again and closed her eyes.
Jennifer was woken by the gentle tug of Catherine’s hand on her arm. Blinking, she looked out of the window. The familiar lights of Spaghetti Junction, now rebuilt and improved, were passing in the darkness. She stretched and yawned, hoping her sleep hadn’t been too undignified.
“We’re nearly at New Street,” Catherine said. “Only fifteen minutes late after all. I hope your head’s feeling better.”
“Yes. Thanks.” Jennifer closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths before gathering her belongings. Soon they were shuffling towards the carriage doors, Catherine in front.
On the platform she turned and held out her hand. “It’s been good to meet you, Ms Sinclair.”
“Jennifer – call me Jennifer, please.”
“Jennifer. And I’m Catherine. Have a good weekend.”
She walked away, scanning the departures board. Jennifer dragged her bags towards the taxi rank, smiling despite herself.
27
May 2021. London
Jennifer began to travel home with Catherine: not every week, but maybe twice a month. Sometimes they would sit in silence across the table, both reading, staring at their phones or grabbing some time to relax. But they also found opportunities to talk, to find out about each other; their families, backgrounds and careers.
They skirted around political topics and resisted the temptation even to discuss the effect of government policy on their constituencies. Catherine’s constituency was an affluent one, with two towns between which she split her time, anxious not to show favouritism. She wasn’t local but had grown up in rural Suffolk, the daughter of a headteacher and a high ranking civil servant. Politics had been part of her life from an early age just as it had been for Jennifer; but, instead of Greenham Common and CND marches, her education had been via the Women’s Institute and the Young Farmers. The stories she told of the parties thrown by the latter made Jennifer laugh out loud; Catherine had been a lot less demure in her youth.
Jennifer found herself looking forward to these journeys, idle chat backed by the hum of the train speeding its way northwards. There was something freeing about spending time with someone who hadn’t been there to witness her betrayal.
Few people on the train spoke to anyone; most were alone, heading home after a long day at work. They would occasionally bump into other Midlands MPs, who struggled to disguise their surprise at catching the two of them together and were eager to hurry away after brief pleasantries.
Eight weeks after the election, Michael gave up his tenuous grip on power and announced a leadership contest. John was the only viable candidate to replace him, and looked like he was going to win easily. A few days before the results were to be announced, Jennifer spotted him in the back corridor of the House of Commons as she was rushing to a committee meeting. He was flanked by advisors and muttering into his phone.
She slowed as she reached him.
“John,” she said. “How’s it going?”
He raised an eyebrow and looked up from his phone. “Jennifer, Jennifer,” he laughed. “I wondered how long it would be.”
Jennifer frowned. “I’m
not after a job, if that’s what you mean.”
He raised his hands in mock surprise. “No?”
“Nope. Happy being a backbencher.”
“Hmm.” He didn’t look convinced.
He whispered something into the ear of an advisor, then turned back to her.
“We need to have a chat,” he said.
She sighed. “I’ve just told you I don’t want a job.”
“Not that. Something else.”
She thought of their confrontations in the past, the way his head would tremble when he was angry. She’d had enough of all that.
“Come and talk to me,” he said. “Tomorrow afternoon.”
John’s door was open. He was standing at his desk, leafing through some documents. His office was strewn with paperwork, opened newspapers and half full cups of coffee.
The battleground, Jennifer thought to herself.
He looked up without smiling.
“Hello there. Take a seat, please.”
She perched on one of the chairs that faced his desk, placing a pile of papers on the other chair.
He sat down and shuffled some piles around, avoiding her eye.
Jennifer watched him. Having people avoid her eye was something she was getting used to, with many of her parliamentary colleagues behaving as if she had a communicable disease.
“So what’s all the cloak and dagger then?” she asked.
“Catherine Moore,” he said, staring at the desk between them.
She sighed. “Catherine Moore.” He hadn’t asked a question so she wasn’t about to answer one.
“I have to admit I’m puzzled.” He leaned back.
Jennifer waited.
The Division Bell Trilogy Page 13
