A Woman's Place by Edwina Currie Page A

their interests first at all times. Jammed between Bampton and Ferriman (who had been widely congratulated at his contretemps with the hated press), Elaine joined in the widespread catcalling. In vain did the senior vice-chairman, who was equally annoyed, try to mollify Members’ disgust.
    Floor managers signalled. The candidates were hushed by sound recordists. Lights brightened, throats were cleared. Roger was conscious that his heart was thumping so powerfully that it must be visible through his shirt. He concentrated hard on the black spot at the centre of the camera’s eye and made himself breathe slowly, in, out.
    â€˜I’ll do it in alphabetical order. Clarke: forty-one.’
    The figure in the Treasury bowed his head, then shrugged and smiled. At the back of Room 10 journalists yelled for the number to be repeated. The air of confusion increased.
    â€˜Dickson: one hundred and eighty.’
    The Chairman roared it with a flourish like a darts referee in his local Conservative Club. Roger bit his lip. Better than predicted. Far better. Not enough to win on first ballot, but…
    â€˜Portillo: eighty. And that means there will be another ballot next week…’
    Noise engulfed the room as reporters ran for the door; an intrepid few, ignoring the Commons’ antiquated rules, pulled out mobile phones and started shouting into them. Into the rapidly clearing space in front of the dais the two chairmen stepped gingerly. Now it was time to face the Members.
    â€˜There shouldn’t be another ballot.’ The older beaten candidate leaned forward in his chair. ‘The party has clearly indicated its preference and I for one won’t argue with that. I am prepared to concede right now.’
    In the studio the TV producer gasped and kept the camera trained full on his target’s face. An order was rapidly hissed down the wire to the stringer with the other loser. In view of what had just been said, was he also prepared to recognise the claims of a man who had won the support of over half the party?
    The young pretender paused. The private struggle did not show, not in a single flicker. Behind him his wife’s normally controlled face betrayed a mixture of anxiety and disappointment. There would be other chances. He had time on his side. To continue the fight would risk splitting the party; on the other hand, to give in gracefully would immediately make him heir apparent.
    â€˜Yes,’ he said.
    Harrison whooped and punched the air in delight. In Room 14 the assembly was made aware that the transition from one leader to the next had been completed. Some scowled and muttered but the main reaction was relief.
    The interviewer turned to Roger Dickson and cordially shook hands. A new deference crept over his features.
    â€˜Well, Prime Minister …’ he began.
    * * *
    Elaine heaved the cardboard box sideways along the hall and deposited it heavily on the floor. As she did so the bottom gave way. Out tumbled books, CDs, old letters, scruffy hairbrushes, spray bottles, a bedside light, assorted make-up, several unmatched socks, a radio, a teddy bear, an alarm clock in the shape of Donald Duck, two posters of the Cure and an ancient pair of trainers entangled with a skein of purple leggings.
    â€˜Thanks, Mum.’ Karen, seated cross-legged on the bed, began to scrabble vaguely at the mess. She tuned the radio into the news for her mother. ‘Where’s my Dire Straits CD? I thought I put it in here.’
    Hands on hips, Elaine looked around. Anthony York’s house was a straightforward Victorian terrace of the kind which once attracted Pooterish assistant bank managers with harassed wives and numerous children, and which now offered a roomy home for couples on second marriages with combined offspring. The half-dozen staircases and lack of parking were a nuisance, but there was ample room for both partners to have their own space, the nanny her own quarters and the