A PPS dwells in the shadow of the Minister and has no independent existence. But that shadow may be long, and the PPS has rights of access, both in the Palace of Westminster and at the Department of State, even at times in the Minister's private life. And to have access in abundance to a great Minister, let alone a Prime Minister, to hover at the right hand and to sit in the rear seat, is one of the most fascinating opportunities available to any young parliamentarian, which is why so blithely they trade their independence for insight and opportunity, and the rudimentary beginnings of influence.
It was a pity about Barry Crumb. He jumped when he should have tarried, hovered when he should be gone, an enthusiast but a man so afraid of getting it wrong that self-consciousness deprived him of initiative and any ability to read Urquhart's mind or moods. The man had no subtlety, no shade. No future. 'He's not up to it, is he?' Urquhart stated. 'No. But I am.'
He took his coat and chuckled at her impudence. In the whole of Christendom there had never been a female PPS, not to a Prime Minister. The boys wouldn't like it, lots of bad jokes about plumbing and underwear. But, Urquhart reflected, it was his intention to shake them up, so what if it upset a few, all the better. Remind them who's in charge. He needed a fresh pair of legs, and at the very least these would be a young and extremely attractive pair of legs, far easier to live with than Crumb's. And he had the feeling she might prove far more than merely a mannequin.
'Would you get rid of the Mercedes and start buying your suits at Marks amp; Spencer?'
'No. Nor will I as your PPS shave my head, grow hair on my legs or allow myself headaches for three days every month.'
He waved goodbye to the rest of the guests, the business of departure replacing the need to reply. 'Time to depart.' He summoned Elizabeth who was bidding Nures farewell, but Claire was still close by his shoulder, demanding his attention. 'I am up to it, Francis.'
He turned at the door. 'You know, I do believe you are.' There was no longer pleasure for her, nothing but dark childhood memories dragged from within by the rhythmic protest of a loose bed spring. She couldn't hide it, he must have noticed, even as his frantic climax filled the bedroom with noise.
That is much how she remembered them, the childhood nights in a small north London semi with Victorian heating and walls of wafer, filled with the sounds of bodies and bed springs in torment. When the eight-year-old had enquired about the noises, her mother had muttered sheepishly about childish dreams and music. Perhaps that's what had inspired Harrison Birtwistle, although by preference she'd rather listen to the torturing of bed springs.
Did anybody still sleep in those classic cast-iron bedsteads full of angry steel wire and complaints, she wondered? It had been so many years since she had, and no regrets at that. Nor did she miss the sitting-room carpet, a porridge of cigarette bums and oil blots and other stains for which there had never been any explanation. 'I'll go down to Hardwick's and get you another,' her father had always promised her mother. But he never did.
Claire Carlsen had left so much behind, yet still the distant echoes tugged at her; she remembered the fear more than the physical pain and abuse, the disgust where later she learnt there might have been love, the tears made scarcely easier to bear by the fact they were shared amongst all three children. She had escaped, as had her sister, but not her younger brother, who still ran a small fish wholesalers around the street markets of south London in between extended bouts of hop-induced stupefaction and wife beating. Like his father. He'd probably go the same way, too, unless his drunken driving intervened. Their father had come home late for Sunday dinner as usual, had cursed them all and thrown his over-cooked food away, slumped on the floor in front of The Big Match, belched and closed his eyes.
The doctor later declared it had been a massive coronary. 'No pain, Mrs Davies,' he had assured. Better than the bastard deserved. They had burnt the sitting-room carpet on the same day they'd burnt him.
The memories sprouted like weeds and she knew that no matter how much she hacked and raked, the roots would always remain buried deep inside.
'Where were you?' Tom Makepeace, still breathless, raised his flushed head from the pillow.
'Oh, a million miles away and about thirty years ago. Sorry,' she apologized, gently levering his weight off her.
'In all the years I've known you I don't think I've ever heard you talk about your childhood. Locked doors.' With a finger he began rearranging the blonde hair scattered across her forehead. 'I don't like you having secrets from me. When I'm with you like this, I want to have you all. You know you're the most important thing to happen in my life for a very long time.'
She looked at him, those kind, deep, affectionate eyes, still retaining a hint of the small stubborn boy that made both his politics and personality emotional and so easy to embrace. And she knew now was the moment, must be the moment, before too much damage was done. 'We've got to stop, Tom.' 'You've got to get back to the House?' 'No. Stop for good. You and me. All this.'
She could see the surprise and then injury overwhelm his face. 'But why…?'
'Because I told you from the start that falling into bed with you did not mean I was going to fall in love with you. I can't fill the gaps in your life, we've got to stop before I hurt you.' She could see she already had.
He rolled onto his back and studied the ceiling, anxious that she should not see the confusion in his eyes,- it was the first time in many years he wished he still smoked. 'You know I need you more than ever.'
'I cannot be your anchor.' Which was what he so desperately needed. As the currents of politics had swirled ever more unsteadily around him, some pushing him on, others enviously trying to snatch him back, the lack of solid footing in his private life had left him ever more exposed. His youngest son was now twenty and at university, his academic wife indulging in her new freedom by accepting a visiting fellowship at Harvard which left her little more than a transient caller in his life with increasingly less to share. He was alone. Fifty had proved a brutal age for Makepeace.
'Not now, Claire. Let's give it another month or so, talk about it then.' He was trying hard not to plead.
'No, Tom. It must be now. You have no marriage to risk, but I do. Anyway, there are other complications.' 'Someone else?' Pain had made him petulant. 'In a way. I spent an hour with the PM this morning. He wants me to be his PPS.' 'And you accepted?' 'Don't make it sound like an accusation, Tom. For God's sake, you're his Foreign Secretary.' 'But his PPS, it's so… personal.' 'You're jealous.'
'You seem to have a weakness for older men,' he snapped, goaded by her observation.
'Damn you, leave Joh out of this!' Her rebuke hit him like a slap in the face and hurt more.
'Forgive me, I didn't mean… It's just that I'm concerned for you. Don't get too close to Francis, Claire. Don't lash yourself to a sinking ship.' 'Dispassionate concern for my welfare?' 'I've never advised you badly before.'
Which was undeniable. Makepeace had guided Claire in her first political steps, sustaining her when successive selection committees had determined that her looks were too distracting or that her place was with the children. When she had persevered and her persistence paid off, he'd helped her find her feet around the House and prepared her for its sexual bombast, had even tried to gain her entry to one of the exclusive dining clubs which generate so much useful contact and mutual support around the House of Commons – 'like smuggling an Indian into Fort Apache,' he had warned. He'd been a constant source of encouragement – although, she reflected, he had never suggested that she become his PPS.