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see him. How am I supposed to manage when he doesn’t get home till eleven at night? Then there’s the child. He’s only five. It’s important for a boy to be close to his father. When is he supposed to see Barney?’
    The words came out in a nervous rush. She was terrified that she was saying the wrong things. Andrew never seemed to listen and had rather given up helping her, particularly in the last few months when he had been so busy. It was easier to talk to another woman, especially one who might understand.
    ‘There are moves afoot to try to change the hours,’ Elaine explained gently. All the debate about the Commons’ crazy hours, starting at 2.30 p.m. and frequently trailing on past midnight, had been about helping women MPs, particularly those with children. The benefits to male Members and their families had been ignored: in this workplace, New Men were thin on the ground.
    Elaine doubted whether a crèche inside Westminster would encourage a single extra selection committee to risk a female candidate, but it would be a gesture. Improving the working of theCommons had her whole-hearted support for other reasons. A House which met at sensible hours might take a more sensible view of life. It might even be efficient and achieve more.
    Tessa Muncastle pulled out a handkerchief and agitatedly blew her nose. The skin around her nostrils was red and sore. Without realising it she now put her finger on why change was unlikely.
    ‘I hope they do change the system, though Andrew is so engrossed in politics that I doubt if he would come home any earlier even when there are no votes. Don’t get me wrong – I do support him and I love him very much. I am sorry: I shouldn’t be going on like this, but…’ She faltered and attempted a watery smile. ‘You caught me at a weak moment.’
    Elaine had enough difficult cases waiting on her desk. This one was for Andrew: better not interfere. Nevertheless her instinct to help reasserted itself.
    ‘You should think of the political life as a bug that has invaded the bloodstream – for life, usually. We don’t choose to be this way. Some are born with it in their genes or drink it with their mother’s milk. With Sir Edward as granddad I expect Andrew is a bit like that. It must be harder for a person with a famous name – so much is expected of them. Barney here will be under similar pressures. But most of us were bitten long ago – at university, or listening to a great speech, or inspired by a leader like Margaret Thatcher, or jolted into action by, say, Vietnam or the fall of the Berlin Wall. The point is, we can’t help it. It takes us over completely. It’s no accident that our ambitions sound vague and platitudinous to outsiders – “wanting to give people a better life”, the sort of things we say in interviews – for what really drives us is the passion of politics itself. And it’s like malaria: once it’s in the blood the infection is lifelong. We suffer if we can’t do it. You, our families, suffer if we do.’
    Barney was now carefully wiping his mouth with a paper napkin. A stubborn bit of chocolate on his cheek threatened to wreck his efforts. Elaine leaned over and solemnly removed the offending crumb with her forefinger; engaging the child’s fascinated gaze, slowly she popped it in her own mouth and smacked her lips.
    ‘Now, young man, I have other people to attend to on the Terrace. And, I suspect, it’s time to take your mother home and look after her. She’s had a long, exciting day. I hope you’ll forgive me.’
    Barney nodded silently, and shook hands. For the rest of his long life he would be in love with Elaine Stalker.
     
    The Terrace runs almost the whole 800-foot length of the building, its classic elegance disfigured by green and white marquees used as lucrative dining facilities. The Thames is high here, deep and green and greasy, with floating jetsam. Barges chug slowly to Tilbury and the Essex marshes followed by screaming