AFTERTHOUGHT
JOHN WELLS .
'I just love that great big smile of his. Is it really true that he's a bachelor? Mmm, I really go for him.' (Miss Jayne Mansfield, quoted in the Daily Express, speaking of the Conservative Leader after lunch with Mr Tim Kitson, Tory MP for Richmond, Yorkshire, and Mr William Elliott, Tory MP for Newcastle North.) As I put down the newspaper and allowed my imagination to wander, a curious, dream- like scene presented itself . . . (The image wobbles. Slumber music, and special effects.) There is a dull murmur in the House of Commons Snackateria Canteen. A pall of stale cigarette smoke hangs over the loafing Mem- bers, sprawled in rumpled stuffy-smelling suits round the greasy tables with their central con- glomeration of leaking sauce bottles, damp salt cellars and thumbed menus. Some are eating, staring glassily in front of them as they lift forkfuls of mashed potato into their withered, hopeless mouths, but the rest lie there apatheti- cally in their Formica stack chairs attempting to quell their dyspepsia or leafing without en- thusiasm through the racing pages of the newspapers, broken and shattered by the soul- destroying, crushing tedium of their work.
In one corner, beneath a torn, disfigured poster warning Members that careless talk costs lives, two men are sitting alone. They lean towards each other anxiously, constantly cast- ing sidelong glances at those around them, as if they were afraid of being overheard,. One, an ebullient man in his middle thirties, wearing a rather daringly cut business suit and suede .. shoes, could be a successful practitioner in public relations. He seems more assured than the other, and occasionally permits himself a confident gesture with the grease-impregnated menu he holds lightly in one hand. It is Tim Kitson, the thirty-six-year-old Member of Par- liament for Richmond, Yorkshire. The man opposite, whose round, genial face and grey doves' wings suggest perhaps a benign rural dean, lays a finger to his lips and leans closer. It is William Elliott, forty-one-year-old Mem- ber of Parliament for Newcastle North.
Apparently unconvinced by the other's argu- ment, Elliott is turning a Babycham mat in his fingers, now and then using it to scrape together a few of the stale crumbs and deposits of white cigarette ash on the table. 'But what if we fail, Kitson, answer me that. A bold stratagem, I grant you, an inspired gamble. But . . . what if this backfires on us, Kitson: have you considered the conse- quences?' Kitson is growing more confident: he fits a House of Commons duty-free Wood- bine into his black cigarette-holder, flicks his Flamminoir Flame-thrower, and cocks an- eye- brow with devil-may-care aplomb. 'The conse- quences, Elliott?' He draws in slowly, and ex- hales a long low cloud of smoke, momentarily obscuring the glutinous sauce bottles, the salt cellar, and Elliott's anxious face. 'Yes, I've considered them. Next week a landslide in the otc elections. In a few months the whole country behind us. Wilson won't know what's hit him. He'll blame Europe, perhaps, Aden,' he indicates the canteen with an elegant move- ment• of the hand, 'the dogs. Rhodesia. George Brown. But ... .' and at this he leant sud- denly forward, avoiding a puddle of congealed gravy on the table top and placing both elbows gingerly to either side of it, 'he'll never suspect the real architects of Conservative victory.' His eyes narrow, and he shakes his head from side to side, as if unable to understand him-
self the importance of what he is saying. 'Us, Elliott, us. Just the two of us, sitting here at this sordid little table. We hold the destiny of England in our hands. Or shall in just a few seconds, if my eyes do not deteive me.'
Suddenly, all around them, the warm cow- shed sounds of the canteen have died away.
In the silence every head in the room, bald, grizzled, clipped or set in musky-scented curls, turns to look towards the doorway, held open by a burly waitress of diminutive stature whose face is transfigured with wonder and terror. The bust in the doorway seems at first to be an illusion, a floating mirage of bliss, the perfect and idealised abstraction of the bust as it hung in the mind of God before time began.
Slow inhalations and exhalations -of breath are the only evidence left that the canteen is full of professional talkers. Gradually beneath the vision a black mini-skirt materialises, then
long legs in little white boots, and above it a tumble of platinum blonde hair and very white teeth set in a wet red smile. 'Good God,' Elliott falls back, his hand on his heart, 'IA e can't go through with this, Kitson.'
But Kitson is already on his feet, going for- ward with hands outstretched to greet her.
'Miss Mansfield?' Her voice is breathy and light, like that of a little tiny girl; 'That's right.' There is the brittle, rasping sound of stale old moustaches being twirled all over the can- teen, soles scrape on the floor, and there are gruff exclamations of sexual enthusiasm as she plants an unorthodox kiss of greeting on the tip of Kitson's nose before taking his arm in an intimate cuddle and following across the crowded canteen, waist-deep in gaping mouths and distended, bloodshot eyes, to where Elliott is getting to his feet. 'Why, Lord Elliott, I heard so much about you. Mmmm.' And she plants a lipstick-red kiss on Elliott's inclined forehead.
The rest of lunch is a desperate exercise in discretion. Every few moments, it seems, Arthur Bottomley reaches over Miss Mansfield's shoulder to borrow the ketchup, or other prominent Labour Members brush against her in search of the salt. She seems delighted with so much attention, and hardly pays attention to Kitson's commiseration with her over her recent contretemps with the clubs in the north- east or to his carefully phrased arguments as to the importance of good publicity after such a setback. At any moment, it is whispered, the Foreign Secretary may arrive. Finally, as Elliott distracts another Labour Cabinet minis- ter come in search of a box of matches he dropped under the table earlier in the day, Kitson makes his suggestion. Miss Mansfield looks startled. She pointarto herself with one coy finger. 'What, little old me?' she asks, with an engaging note of naiveté in her voice: 'Well, alrightey. Bin how do I know which one he is?' Elliott comes to her assistance.
'Plump chap, front bench, can't miss him.' He thinks for a moment. Wm_ Perhaps you can. Look, tell you what, we'll be standing behind him, pointing downwards like this.' Miss Mans- field's face clears as she stands up. 'And what do I say to this cushy-wushy newspaperman
again?' Deep in conversation, the three of-them leave the canteen, arm in arm, the light of history glowing about them.
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