the Sceptre Room at the top of
the stone staircase reminded her of Jenny Wren’s rooftop garden in
Our Mutual Friend.
Peering through its high lead- paned
windows at the world below, she thought of
The clouds rushing on above the
narrow streets ... the golden arrows pointing at the mountains in the
sky from which the wind comes
Come up and be dead she said to
Belinda.
But if the latter had any recollection
of Professor Newbolt’s lecture on Les Fleurs du Mal: a
Dickensian Vision; she gave no sign and headed, like a
bloodhound, to the drinks table.
Glasses of red and white wine in
serried ranks (not champagne) were tended by hospitality staff
in their new smart/casual uniforms. Waiters circled with honey
glazed cocktail sausages studded with sesame seeds; party pickles;
asparagus wheels (cut price catering) and she took a
gherkin in preference to a sticky, sweet sausage.
And was your husband an MP too?
enquired Belinda.
No, she replied He’s dead –
I mean he is, but we divorced a long time ago.
As she accepted the standard words of
condolence, she remembered that Belinda had never known Paul and
would be incapable of differentiating a Truscott from a Chase.
She belonged to that earlier world of
Peony Hall with Lionel Kerridge in role as scourge of Jane
Daventry rather than bond slave to an ageing Blanche du Bois.
Although of course, continued
Belinda, between sips; we all expected you and Derek to tie the
knot ------ Oh gosh – there’s Heather! Isn’t this wonderful?
Belinda Briscoe had not distinguished
herself at Dorlich.
Her solid 2.2 was as predictable
as her footwear (desert boots regardless of climate or occasion); her
membership of the Pip’n Jay Country Ramblers and her
captaincy of the Peony Hall lacrosse team.
After Dorlich, she had worked as a
Hospital Administrator before sinking into marriage and children with
Giles Lambton, an earnest mathematician. They had been joined
at the hip since Fresher’s week and he was doubtless her first and
last lover.
In fact the only interesting thing
about Belinda Briscoe was the fact that Sandra Milford had ruined her
party in 1975.
The thought of spending the entire
reception with Belinda was intolerable and the approach of a stout
woman who must be Heather Lydgate clinched it.
With a smile both polite and
preoccupied, she waved at Heather, made her excuses and crept
decorously into a corner.
Derek was regaling a small group of
guests at an adjoining table.
He was swaying to and fro; flicking his
thumbs in his waistband, and patting a settled paunch. She observed
that his complexion was blotchy and suspected an untoward reliance
upon Mr Weston’s good wine.
As she sipped the unpleasantly warm
wine on offer, she reflected with annoyance that a man with the
income of Derek could have spent more on the refreshments. He had
exposed himself as an out and out cheapskate and she marvelled at
Belinda’s astounding presumption that the Pants Ahoy escapade
had been a serious ‘affair’.
Of course anyone who had responded to
an examination question on Jane Austen’s presentation of courtship
in Emma with a robust defence of Harriet Smith’s delusions
about Mr Elton:
(Did you read the novel before
writing the essay, Miss Briscoe?)
must be cursed by a permanent
impairment of judgement.
But had Belinda communicated these
opinions to others?
And was she doing it now?
She suppressed a frisson of anger at
the absent Sandra Milford who had regaled the details of her skirmish
with Derek to their entire social circle and shot a surreptitious
glance in the direction of the drinks table. The two women seemed to
be working their way through its contents with neither discrimination
nor taste – but they were certainly communicating something to an
avid audience.
The composition of the audience was
disconcerting if not downright eccentric.
She had been invited to a reception in
The Sceptre Room to commemorate a former colleague’s 25th
anniversary of unbroken service on the Front Bench and the
handwritten note from his researcher had stated that Derek had
particularly wished to reconnect with all his old Regional teams.
On her arrival at Westminster in 1997,
she had been disconcerted to discover that Derek Kingsmill was her
first Regional Whip. After six months, the groups were changed and
she found herself under the supervision of the late Pete Dent, but
Derek had continued as a Whip; rising in seniority before his
subsequent Ministerial posts at Education, Trade and Industry and
International Affairs.
She had not been a long-standing
member of Derek’s flock. But now she appeared to be the only former
member of a Kingsmill ‘Regional team’
in the room.
Indeed, if you discounted Chief Whip
Terence Gale (who was ensconced in conversation with
Heather Lydgate) and Gretchen Andrew (who always attended
everything with the purpose of burnishing her leadership
credentials); there were very few MPs from any team or none – in
the room.
Except Bill Cornish…
Derek’s reception was a Dorlich
Reunion, circa 1976. It would have been ideally situated in the
University’s Gloriana Suite but to assemble such a gathering
in the Sceptre Room at the House of Commons was bizarre. Gissy had
not been excluded because she had been consigned to the Westminster
equivalent of Siberia - but because she was an MP.
This was not a reception for MPs.
She consumed a bite sized Yorkshire
pudding topped with slivers of beef and horseradish and surveyed
the scene.
The distinctive figure of
internationally renowned geneticist Sir Leslie Potts had now
joined the Lydgate group alongside Sandra’s love rival, Clifford
Morledge and they were both chatting in animated style to none
other than Hamish Underhill; Lucinda Prynne; Jocasta Sharp and
Nathaniel Bilbie.
Sarah Cassidy and her husband,
TV presenter Robbie Nantwich, formed a separate group, near to
the door with Terence Gale and a late arrival; the distinguished
anthropologist Ben Bex-Oliver.
To the right of the Gale coterie were
some faces that were vaguely familiar from Derek’s set in the
Social Sciences Department amidst a sprinkling of Sandra’s
undergraduate contemporaries from Chemistry and some who must have
studied Biology with Leslie and Classics with Ben.
The issue was no longer the whereabouts
of Gissy, but the absence of Lynne; an impermeable conundrum. She
adjusted her coat and walked towards the exit – to find her way
blocked by the substantial figure of Terence Gale.
An hour later, she had spent longer
in enforced association with the former residents of 14a Wellington
Parade than in her entire university career.
Terence Gale and Wendy’s PPS Mike
Stubbs appeared to be monitoring the conversation; plying the
group with wine and canapés - or preventing anyone from leaving?
Bill Cornish greeted her with an
effusive embrace and Derek Kingsmill ignored her as usual.
So why had he invited her?
She felt increasingly ill at ease; took
another drink and scanned his guests.
Nathaniel Bilbie of the pink
crotchless panties and green sombrero was debating Bulls and
Bears with Major Hamish (Spliffy) Underhill of the
Rifles. Lucinda Prynne was a grandmother and Jocasta Sharp
whose unbridled love life had propelled her to the Out Patient
Department at the Dorlich Special Clinic for Sexually Transmitted
Diseases, had recently assumed a posting as Lord Lieutenant of
Chervil County.
The beautiful and the damned of
Dorlich……..
Who had, in reality, been neither.
They had been good looking, rich and
young and as such, had donned fancy dress for three years prior to
embracing the shades of the prison house in the City, the Army
and the Shire Counties of England.
They were no longer trailing clouds
of glory and she had absolutely nothing to say to them about
anything.
But then, she and Lynne had never
had anything to say to them…
I can’t for the life of me think
why I’ve been invited!
It’s not as though I’ve seen any
of the crowd for years – except Leslie because our professional
paths cross – sort of…
But he rang up last week and
practically dragooned me into attending! I’m not a political guy!
As for Derek – I could have walked past him in the street and not
known him from Adam --- and what about you?
Weren’t you a friend of a girl
called Maisey in my Classics set?
Ben Bex-Oliver was a remarkably
handsome man; the wine was, after all, palatable and perhaps a
chocolate strawberry might suffice…
She refreshed her glass.
1 comment:
The Beautiful and the Damned, definitely worth reading, shows the realism of everyday life.
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