Free The Image in the Water by Douglas Hurd Page A

‘And, anyway, I didn’t really want to go home.’
    Home, home. The bleak over-protected government home in South Eaton Place was no home for a child. Mothecombe, of course, that was a real home in the holidays, but Devon was unimaginably far for a ten-year-old.
    â€˜Why, Roger?’ Silence. ‘Was it about school? Something you’ve done? Or we’ve done?’ Silence. ‘Was it the story in the newspaper?’
    â€˜They laughed at me. Gromson got hold of the maths beak’s copy. I didn’t understand what it meant.’
    Then at last proper tears began to flow.
    They had more or less guessed after they had heard of Roger’s conversation that morning with the headmaster. Clive Wilson had fewer inhibitions than the rest about other people’s privacy. Anyway, hadn’t Roger given them, his friends and allies, the right to know? Acting on a hunch Clive had telephoned the headmaster of Hillcrest at lunchtime, describing himself as a close friend of Roger worried about his state of mind and wondering if something was amiss with one of Roger’s boys. The headmaster had portentously but understandably declined to give any information to a stranger. ‘We at Hillcrest take seriously our responsibility for the privacy of the boys in our care.’
    Wilson had seen his opening. ‘Then both boys are safe and sound in your care?’
    â€˜Yes, indeed. There’s no problem with Tom, and Roger came back to school late this morning.’
    So the crisis, if there had been a crisis, was over. Clive shared the news with the rest of the campaign committee as they gathered again at seven, as agreed, in the small private room at the Carlton Club. A round table in the centre was laid for the dinner with Roger to which Sarah Tunstall had invited the five influential backbenchers. Clive gazed at the massed ranks of cutlery and glasses. ‘I see you like to put plenty of sticky on your fly-paper, Sarah.’
    But she was not the sort to enjoy that kind of banter. She would eat some of each dish and sip each wine, knowing that these things were important for the male politicians whom she despised.
    â€˜I just hope he’s on good form.’
    â€˜He bloody well ought to be. He’s catching up fast. That poll in the
Standard
…’
    They had all seen the mid-afternoon edition. It was unreliable, in that few MPs would feel compelled to tell the truth to journalists at this or any stage of the contest. Also, of course, it had been taken before the thunderbolt. It showed a marked swing towards Roger, compared to the week before:
Courtauld
146
Freetown
181
Undecided
  40
    A separate poll alongside it, of party members in the constituencies, showed a bigger lead for Joan Freetown, but also amajority saying that they would be influenced in their vote by how the MPs had voted the week before.
    â€˜One more heave …’ There was something about political infighting that stimulated platitudes even in intelligent people.
    â€˜He should be smiling …’
    Indeed, coming through the door at that moment, Roger was smiling. For that moment, misunderstanding each other, they were all happy. Then he broke it up. Going to the drinks table at the side of the room he began clumsily to splash cold white wine into glasses from an opened bottle in a refrigerated container.
    â€˜Here’s yours, Sarah … Let’s all sit down now. I’ve something to tell you.’
    They sat, untidily, at different angles round the table laid for others.
    â€˜I’ve decided to pull out. You’ll understand when I tell you. You’ve got children, Sarah, so have you …’
    He told them about Hillcrest and young Roger. They tried to look sympathetic but in their hearts none of them sympathised. The boy was safe, back at school. Some of them had met him, a thin, insignificant lad. There was no reason for Roger to jump out of his groove. They were silent