‘That’s what I think.’ I concentrated on frying up the bacon. ‘But I’ll pass.’

‘Certainly you do,’ said Mannochie.

Will still had his teeth into the subject. ‘I can’t afford to photograph badly. Ever. Back me up, Mannochie. One bad showing and it takes years to eradicate.’

We perched on the sofa and chair in the sitting room, ate bacon, egg and toast, drank coffee, and rifled through the morning papers. Will and Mannochie discussed tactics and, at great length, diary commitments.

I looked up from the paper and tossed a fact into the date discussion. ‘I shall be in Australia in December.’

As one, both men turned in my direction.

Will said: ‘You didn’t mention it to me, Fanny.’

‘Yes, I did. You’ve forgotten.’

Mannochie brushed the crumbs surrounding his plate into a tidy little heap. ‘Stanwinton is big on Christmas. It’s part of the civic pride. There’s a frenzy of fund raising which the sitting MP always supports. Then there are parties for the local children’s homes, the evergreens and the disabled.’ He smiled apologetically. Attendance really is compulsory.’

I addressed Will. ‘Fine. You will be there.’

Will fumbled for a second piece of toast and buttered it. ‘Fanny. I am not sure how to put this, but I need you with me.’ He looked especially desirable: slightly rumpled, boyish and pleading. It made me want him very badly.

I shook my head. ‘Dad and I have set up a lot of business. We’re due at the Hunter Valley, we are guests of honour at a dinner in Adelaide and Bob and Ken are coming over from the Yarra.’

These names meant nothing to either of the men. They were part and parcel of my and my father’s territory and we had done business with them for years. ‘You want me to smile sweetly, kiss cheeks, sing carols, pat sticky hands?’

‘That was the deal.’ Will’s gaze shifted from Mannochie to me.

Will and I had discussed the theory of our division of work plenty of times, and I assumed that I would be at liberty to choose when to go on duty – when to be a good wife. ‘This is business, Will. These are long-term commitments.’

Mannochie picked up his egg-stained plate and edged towards the door. ‘Will, Fanny, I am sure you need to talk things over… Fanny, perhaps it would be a good idea if we went through the diary for the year. That way, we will avoid future clashes.’

This was the cue for our first quarrel… which went along the lines of: why didn’t you say something earlier? And me saying tartly back at him: you don’t listen to what I say. Then Will demanded how could I have made him look a fool in front of Mannochie?

‘Very easy,’ I said, quick as a flash.

That made Will grin. After that, the atmosphere calmed down and we began to talk properly. It was clear we had not agreed demarcation lines and we needed to sort this out.

It was not as if Will demanded that I give up my work for his. ‘No, not at all,’ he said. He scratched his head with the Biro. ‘Your work is important, and it has to be slotted in. It’s just, I would have liked you to have been there for the Christmas run-up. Just this first year.’

This caused me to lie awake for most of the night, sifting over the pros and cons of the respective demands on our time.

The subject suddenly appeared so vexing that I ended up making myself tea at four o’clock in the morning. While the kettle boiled, I ran my fingers over the glass jars with red screw tops that I had bought soon after we married.

Kitchens should be larger than this. They shouldn’t be mean proportioned and stingy with storage.

Not like the big house in Fiertino, if my father was to believed, where a larder led off the main kitchen. This was used to store pâtés and dried meats, and tins. ‘There were rows of bottles in there, in wonderful colours,’ he told me. ‘Fruit and pickles and walnuts… if you could bottle summer, it was in those bottles. My mother checked the larder every day. It was a habit, and it was unthinkable to her she did not make that daily check. “It is important for the family,” she always said. “I have to make sure there is food otherwise I can’t sleep nights.’”

Meanwhile, I was going to make do with two small shelves in the kitchen and fill my glass jars with rice, nuts, pasta and lentils. I had already arranged my wine manuals on the spare bit of worktop by the toaster.

The kettle boiled.

Next door, a bedspring creaked and feet hit the floor. Will appeared at the door. ‘Fanny… you must be freezing.’ He squeezed into the kitchen and slipped his arms around my waist. ‘You are freezing. Here, let me make the tea.’

We took it back to bed and drank it, with my cold feet resting on Will’s legs to warm them up. ‘My fault,’ he said.

‘It’s my fault, too.’

Then, he took away my cup of tea and put it down on the bedside table. He stroked my hair and I had a minor revelation as to why arguments were so necessary, for making up was extremely sweet.

‘Mannochie and I will manage,’ he said cheerfully.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Almost.’

That made me laugh. I slipped my hand under his T-shirt and rested it on his exciting bare flesh.

During what remained of the night, Chloë was conceived. I had no inkling of this when, at the first opportunity, I bought a large, looseleaf, leatherbound diary and gave it to Will. ‘It will last us,’ I said, ‘for years and years.’

7

Looking back, there was a peculiar intensity about living in virtually one room. We touched constantly: if I went into the kitchen, I brushed against Will; if he sat down on the bed to lace up his shoes, he dislodged me; if we passed each other, our shoulders met.

After we moved, and there were rooms in which to expand, it was different. But, then, we had a new life, and different things to occupy us.

At the very last minute, Will was ordered to join a factfinding tour of Europe for the car-tax scheme which put paid to his plan to spend a couple of days at home with Chloë before she left on her travels. He broke the news to her over a Sunday lunch. ‘Sorry, darling. I hope you understand.’

Chloë continued to eat. ‘It’s OK,’ she said.

I couldn’t bear the disappointment on her face. ‘Will, couldn’t you just manage an afternoon?’

‘It’s OK.’ Chloë did her best to look as if she did not care.

Will shot me a look and I mouthed at him, ‘She’s upset.’ ‘Chloë,’ he said, ‘I feel miserable about it.’

She stood up, and I saw the much older Chloë in her expression. ‘But not quite miserable enough, Dad,’ she said. ‘So let’s leave it, shall we?’

She left the room, closing the door with a distinct bang.

I looked at Will. ‘She’s been planning this for ages…’

Will looked really distressed. ‘I wish I didn’t have to go.’

‘Oh, well.’ I began to clear up the plates. ‘It’s done now.’

He winced, and studied his shoe laces. ‘Fanny,’ he said at length, without looking up, ‘I have a favour to ask…’

‘Don’t tell me,’ I said. ‘Let me guess.’

Surgeries took place in one of the smaller rooms of the town hall. Its window was stuck shut, trapping in the odours of stewed coffee and stale air.

Tina, the constituency secretary, bustled in with two shopping-bags and dumped them on the floor. ‘The whole bloody lot is bound to thaw,’ she said, ‘chicken korma, peas, but if the old man demands his dinner pronto, who am I…?’

Tina was a compact, motherly woman who had a habit of clicking her tongue in protest as she listened in to some of the worst cases. Her husband was out of work, and to make ends meet she sold make-up from door to door. Today she was wearing turquoise trousers and a shell-pink lipstick, which, if it had been the last lipstick on earth, should have been burned in an auto da fé. But she wore it with defiance and an air of ‘never surrender’. She shoved the chicken korma under the table. ‘My old man thinks we should have a bodyguard. There are madmen out there.’

‘Mannochie will do, won’t you, Mannochie?’

‘To the death,’ he said, in his dry way.

First in was Mrs Scott. She was a regular at the Saturday surgeries. Over the years Will had struggled to sort out her damp flat and the family next door who terrorized her. She was tiny, twisted with osteoporosis and, long ago, had lost any remaining family of her own.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘The minister busy? Something important?’ Touchingly, Mrs Scott considered Will’s seniority a personal plus. I explained I was not exactly taking the surgery but sitting in for him. Today she had an arm in a sling. ‘Tripped on the stairs, didn’t I? The council said they’d come and see to them so I want you to sue them for me.’

We discussed what we could do for her and the continuing and losing battle against her neighbours’ regime of terror. Mrs Scott’s mouth was drawn tight with pain and stress. ‘Should we get the doctor to come and check you over?’ I asked.

The remnants of her old spirit revived. ‘The last time a doctor set foot in the place, Queen Victoria was on the throne.’ She delved into her bag. ‘I’ve brought you something. I was going to give it to the minister to give to you.’

She passed over a soft piece of netting edged with beads. ‘It’s for your milk jug,’ she said. ‘I made it.’

I spread it out on the desk. The beads were lapis-lazuli blue with gold flecks and very pretty. A lump came into my throat.

She watched me with shrewd eyes. ‘Not all a waste of time, eh?’

No, it was not. ‘That must be your best one, Mrs Scott.’

‘I wanted you to have it now. I might not be around for too long,’ she said.

With an effort, she pulled herself to her feet and shook her head as if she were trying to release stored information. ‘It’s gone in a flash,’ she said. ‘Life. And I wouldn’t mind if it hadn’t been so bloody rotten.’