At the still small point of the
turning world …..there the dance is.
Forty-eight hours after her return from
Westminster and the announcement of the Government reshuffle; she did
not feel like dancing. Nothing had happened in The Sceptre Room to
damage her personally and she had not damaged herself. She had
mislaid neither handbag nor knickers; it had been Heather Lydgate’s
gusset on show to the world and not hers.
She had not disported herself like a
hoyden (those were the days and Ben Bex Oliver should have been
the man).
And yet …..
Turning to Ponia’s Picks; The
Crier’s Guide to the Re-shuffle; she experienced a
stomach twinge from days past; the never forgotten no-nonsense
announcement combined with the chimes of Big Ben, that it was
5pm, Thursday at Westminster – the worst time of the week.
Over the years her PA, Ida, contrived
to arrange the diary so that this spot of time found her at Bill
Committee; Backbench Committee; entertaining constituents or speaking
in the Chamber. Anything to forbid her the office between 4.30
-5.30pm when she would be beyond the control of man or beast.
Five pm Thursday, was the slot when
the Chief Whip’s Assistant, ( deputising for Blind Pew), would
commence the weekly ‘ring-round’; the terrifying summons to ‘make
yourself available’ at a given time to be presented with charges as
yet undisclosed, from accusers yet to be specified. At 5 30 pm,
regardless of whether she or Gissy had been dealt the black spot or
avoided its deadly stain; repairing to the Regular Suite (
Westminster’s Admiral Benbow ) for the purposes of commiseration
or celebration, completed the process.
It was a rite of passage familiar to
all and mentioned by none.
It was always the same…
Chief Whip’s Assistant: Hello –
am I speaking to XMP?
MP’s PA: Oh (laughing cheerily;
sipping a decaff) I’m afraid she’s just popped out! (with
finger on lips and glaring at MP who has refused, despite
blandishments, to vacate the office ).
No – I’m afraid I don’t know -
I suspect she may have pulled up stumps for the day; she was planning
to spend a few hours in the library working on the Corporation Tax…..
No – yes – Tuesday – was that
eleven? Eleven thirty? Right you are! And can I tell her what it’s
about?
No, I see, – of course not –
he’ll tell her himself. Yes, yes, of course. I’ll pass the
message on (replacing receiver).
Well – (rueful smile at MP, by now
the whitest shade of pale; rooting around for cigarette and ‘saucer
- as – ashtray’; the office being a smoke-free zone)
as I expect you gathered, that was
Terrence Gale’s office. He wants to see you on Tuesday.
(phone rings)
Hello – yes it is. Who is that
please? Gissy? Oh yes. Where?
(puts hand over phone). Gissy Wicks
for you – and can you meet her now before the vote, in The Regular
Suite?
But Ida was speaking to thin air. She
had already left.
Ten minutes later, they would be
hunched at a corner table gripping (large) glasses of Sancerre and
grimacing at the Chamber Monitoring Screen beside the bar:
Time for one more I think …
Cornish has only just started to wind up …
Oh – definitely! (Gissy -
lighting up; flicking ash dextrously onto the green Pugin carpet). I
am so thoroughly pissed off about this – now no bloody weekend;
eating fags; throwing up --- and I can’t think what the FUCK it’s
about! And Gale – you know he enjoys this? WANKER!!! Last time,
he kept me waiting outside his office while he chatted to an intern
about his Christmas card list and when I finally got in I was pissing
myself. Almost. And it was that bastard Ralph again! He’d phoned
the Whips’ Office bleating that I’d missed the last four Party
meetings in a row and that two Grove Ward pensioners said I’d been
‘abrasive’ at the ‘coffee ‘n cakes’.
It was reliably and unvaryingly
grotesque; a Whips’ nark was tasked to tip off the press and it
would surface in a Diary to be used by Constituency Party enemies so
the whole miserable cycle would begin again. With a phone call on
Thursday.
Of course, it must have been worse for
Gissy with the backdrop of the Polaris affair. Gale must have
adored making her squirm – although not in the way he had
originally intended.
How loathsome it all was; what a
wretched job in fact and why oh why hadn’t she used her talents on
something else? She could have been an actress; an academic; a
journalist – and of course it was all Paul’s fault because if she
hadn’t met him she would have done all of that, probably ALL
AT ONCE and she was just getting into the mental swing of
coulda been a contender when the phone rang.
She closed the, as yet, unread Crier
and picked up the receiver:
Yes – yes it is. Oh ---hello –
Terrence!
‘Terry’ please! I think we’ve
known each other long enough for that?
After twenty years without so much as
sharing a tension-free tea with the Chief Whip, the idea of venturing
anything as intimate as abbreviated Christian names was unthinkable –
and slightly obscene. ‘Terrence’ felt like a liberty too far;
she was sure that for preference, it would have been ‘Mr Gale’,
if not ‘Sir’ with a curtsey.
She breathed deeply, aware of a hand
tremor.
How truly ridiculous!
She had lost her seat nearly ten years
ago; Macey Cline was the new Fengrove candidate; Gale in role as Tin
Pot General could neither help her nor harm her….
And yet…. (lighting a
half-smoked and therefore serviceable cigarette and smoothing her
skirt)
Yes – ‘Terry’ of course!
(girlish half chuckle) – how can I help you?
There was a slight but unmistakable
pause – Gale knew his power. She conjured him up in his
wood-panelled office; shirt-sleeves rolled; leg looped over chair
arm. Tapping a desk leg with a brogue.
Just wanted to say how VERY nice we
ALL thought it was to see you at Derek’s little party – Edith
mentioned it to Wendy…. now did you get home safely after that
dreadful business with poor Mrs Aspinall? You’ll excuse an old lag
his pastoral duties – once a member of my flock and all that!!!
‘Edith’ …. As if Edith Traynor
was her friend!
She had first met the Prime Minister’s
Official Spokesperson at a Candidates’ Training course circa
1989. They were lying on their backs, flexing and un-flexing their
knees; Head to Head and Toe to Toe…..
The big idea was to equip them with
relaxation techniques to re-charge batteries on the campaign trail
but the session was not relaxing. In fact, it was a detestably
stressful gym-kit contest with comrades like Wendy Kaye channelling
Diana at the Harbour Club and Edith Traynor at the other end
of the spectrum, reprising Sweaty Betty, puffing and blowing
in an orange leotard.
The plump nonentity who stuck like gum
to the trainers of a then unelected and unmarried future Prime
Minister was unrecognisable as the sleek and sinuous aide who had
crafted the persona of Wendy Runcible from the raw and not
obviously promising clay of Ms Wendy Kaye.
The price that either woman had paid
for Wendy’s tenure at No 10 had long been and would continue to be
– the subject of desultory but consistent speculation.
But Gale’s mention of Traynor was as
deliberate and purposeful as everything that now typified the
Official Spokesperson herself.
They meant business – and business
with her.
And I’m so glad that you managed
to have that little chat with Mike (continued Terrence) Sylvie
– not now!! – Sorry, never a dull moment at No 12 as you know!
Now where were – yes, Dawn Grainger! Finally going - and I can’t
tell you what a relief…very forgetful; voted with the Tories in the
Budget Debate THREE TIMES but what can you do?
Short of contract killing – any
attempt at deselection is just not a runner. The comrades in D West
adore her - of course, that’s to be applauded – dear old Dawn!
But it means that we couldn’t haul her to the knackers – had to
sit tight...
BUT - God’s in his heaven!! She’s
accepted Wendy’s offer of a kick upstairs – I think her son had
something to do with it! He thinks he’ll get the seat! Dream on
Billy!! Ha!! ‘The Other Place’ – our very own nursing home!! I
know that the changes have lowered the average age, but God –
doesn’t it still stink in there – all the widdle pads!! So yes!
– DW is up and YOU ARE THAT WOMAN!
Dorlich – perfect!! I’ve booked
your hotel at Conference; The Berriman as usual; all you have to do
is charm the comrades… It’ll be easy – the line is - YES to
re nationalising everything; republic after the demise of Her Maj;
mega defence cuts with proceeds straight into benefits - and
unions to be consulted on all policies!
And once you’re in, of course you
never said any of it and the idiots who said you did are Tory
MOLES!!!
A response was neither expected nor
requested and the subject was changed.
As Terrence segued with aplomb from the
Election; through Welfare to Poole flaunting humble origins by
staging a photo shoot at the Pound Shop …she flicked her kitchen
blinds. The green wood had cost a fortune in 2001 but was now badly
chipped and should be replaced. Should be, but wouldn’t be because
she couldn’t afford it.
Her glass dining table; achingly trendy
in 1999, was now sporting a hairline crack as was the plaster in the
kitchen and third bedroom. It looked like subsidence but wasn’t.
It was a standard and minor case of outer wall weakening with a
repair tag of £7,000. As £7,000 ( like £700) was out of the
question, there it remained; mimicking subsidence and repelling
potential buyers – along with a basement needing re-tanking at a
very reasonable, but for her, completely prohibitive £16,000…
She couldn’t afford any of it – let
alone the ‘quick lick of paint’ to refurbish the bathroom that
Fran at the Estate Agent considered advisable ‘to net the price’.
And so there she would remain; year on
year and her only reprieve would be via a six- foot box on a mission
of no return.
….perhaps seeing Bill brought back
bad memories of Mrs C – don’t you think? Terrence had
back-tracked to Derek’s party.
She was pressed to affirm that Heather
Lydgate Aspinall had been upset by Sandra Milford Cornish who had not
been there.
Well, no, I don’t think so…
Unless the thought of Sandra had forced
Heather to stuff her face with everything edible, showing a catholic
disregard for flavour or texture and washing it down with anything
she could get her hands on of an even remotely alcoholic nature.
Does she always drink like this? the
Registrar at St Aelfric’s had murmured. Amazing – it’s
normally the under-25swho are the hardened booze hounds…Did you tie
her up (loosening the pussy bow) and pour it down her throat?
(laughing).
Oh I think you’ll find, retorted
Terrence, that she was…
And he was off; citing Heather’s
quotes in Maurice Cantor’s Desperate HOUSEwife hatchet-job
on Sandra. The former Ms Milford had driven her student colleague to
a nervous breakdown; paving the way for a lifetime’s servitude at
the counter of successive country Chemists’.
No, she said – I don’t
think it was like that. I think Cantor got it wrong.
Sandra had, naturally, gloated when
Heather’s breakdown had gifted her Darwin Science Prize on a plate
- but she had not caused the breakdown. She had not forced
Heather to trash her bedroom; to devastate her kitchen and to boycott
Finals.
Indeed, judging from Mrs Aspinall’s
recent performance, it was likely - even probable, that the events of
37 years ago were the first manifestation of what had since become a
deep- seated psychological problem associated with food and drink.
Heather had trashed the kitchen and her
own bedroom – what would an analyst make of that?! Would a woman
in command of her own psyche have behaved in such a spectacular
fashion on her first visit to the House of Commons? And where for
that matter, was Mr Aspinall?!!
She did not voice these thoughts, but
the Chief Whip was unaccustomed to contradiction:
Hmm, well, Mrs Cornish – bit of a
disruptive force - some of your old crew at Dorlich …. Mrs Lambton,
Sir Leslie……yourself and dear old Derek – now, now, you really
are MUCH too kind – always making allowances for people! It doesn’t
do you know! Could be viewed as a FAULT…..
Sylvie – yes, coming! (rueful
laugh) I’m so sorry, but I really must fly; Opposition Day Debate
and I doubt we’ll get the numbers….have a think about DW ----- of
course, Billy Grainger would be a very popular choice and really very
smart – excellent candidate; but if you’re serious about a
return we MAY be able….. I’ll call you in a week or so….
And he was gone.
What was required now was the haven of
The Regular Suite and Gissy as confidante, but in the absence of
both, the fridge and a large glass of Chardonnay would suffice.
She did not feel well.
The horrific certainty that Terrence
must KNOW about Pants Ahoy and had been making veiled,
but purposeful, references to it, had induced the symptoms of an
entire menopausal cycle in one go as a hot flush was succeeded by a
cold sweat and back again.
Why on earth would Derek tell anybody,
least of all, the Government Chief Whip that, thirty seven years
ago, he had indulged in drunken and profoundly unsatisfactory,
sexual congress with a woman who, many years later, pitched up in the
work place as a colleague?
And that the uniquely embarrassing romp
had, unbeknownst to the two principles, been conducted in the
presence of a third party – who had herself pitched up, many years
later as the wife ( now discarded) of a Cabinet colleague?
Or that the said party had advertised
the baleful bonk in an article purporting to be about a debate on
Barclay’s Bank, couched in incriminating and salacious
language, in a student magazine?
She finished her drink without tasting
it.
Had Terrence been privy to this
excruciating information during the entire course of her
Parliamentary career? Had he experienced mental flashes of the pants,
so to speak, every time he had reprimanded her for a minor
misdemeanour or refused her request to be appointed to a Bill
Committee?
She thought not. It was equally
discomfiting for Derek, who could scarcely bear to speak to her and
who had avoided her as usual, in The Sceptre Room two days ago.
Why had she been invited to the party
at all?
Why had Terrence phoned today?
He was not a friend; she had never
believed that he esteemed her talents.
But at first he had been pleasant –
and helpful. Her office was spacious; she had been one of the first
of the new intake to be appointed to a Select Committee. Ralph Egg
had written a puffy piece somewhere or other.
Del Kemp had praised her Maiden Speech
– in which she had bid for a super hospital pilot in
Fengrove with the piece de resistance being a cleverly crafted
hint that her Tory predecessor had been personally responsible for an
outbreak of Legionnaire’s disease.
This had led to a barnstorming
performance on Mid-week Medley; the popular television
magazine - style slot - a mix of anecdote, report and debate.
It was rare for a Backbencher to
feature, but she had deputised for Junior Minister, Gretchen Andrew
at short notice and had defended Wendy’s proposed cut in free
school dinners with a passion that had earned her praise from
Terrence at the late vote.
So far, so surprisingly good – and
then treading water for eight years; abandoned to the mercies of
Edgar Smith and his constituency henchmen and sinking as planned,
stone-like, at the election before last.
How did she get from there to
here? (here, sitting solo in a dressing gown, drinking wine
before midday at a cracked table in an unsellable house with
bits and bobs of jobs? ).
Her eye caught a footnote in The
Crier, below the, as yet unread, Ponia’s Picks.
Back With a Bang - Wicks Snuffs Out
Deselection Threat.
It was a late cut ‘n paste from a
News Agency and would certainly be developed in succeeding days - but
the good news was that Gissy had seen off the challenge from Valerie
Pringle! It had gone to the edge (as usual with Gissy) and the
sitting MP had triumphed on the toss of a coin after recorded
votes had produced a dead heat between the candidates.
The bad news was that Gissy’s lover,
Westminster PC Pete, had celebrated the victory by letting off a
few fireworks on the balcony of their apartment; police had been
called and Pete was now being ‘investigated’. In a brief
statement, Gissy had pronounced herself pleased to have
vanquished Pringle and confident that Pete would not face
charges.
Gissy…..
Paul absconding with a tart called
Meriel, two weeks after her election; leaving his trademark slime of
devastation had not been an ideal start to a Parliamentary career.
The news had spread quickly; but
Westminster was not Chudleigh and at Westminster, Paul was nobody.
And he and not she had been the transgressor….
What had Terrence said today? – that
she had always made allowances for people and that it could be
considered a fault?
She recalled an incident shortly after
her television debut; a one to one with Terrence. It was a
Whips’ initiative (quickly dropped) of holding appraisal
interviews with MPs. Everything had gone well; she had settled
in the Chamber and the feed-back from her Select Committee Chair
was good.
But if you’ll take a tip,
Terrence had whispered as she left the office, you’ll choose
your friends carefully…..
Later that evening, she joined Gissy in
the Regular Suite as they waited for the Division Bell and final
votes on the Second Reading of the Defence Bill.
Gissy was bursting with tales from her
first Select Committee trip to Montreal.
Perry Dryesdale; the Shire Counties’
Tory who had opposed the repeal of Section 28 with a speech of the
most graphic sexual content ever to be recorded in Hansard, had
been spotted by the Committee Clerk, entering a gay lap dancing
club! He had begged the Clerk not to inform the Committee Chair (who
was related to his wife) and had spent the remainder of the trip
confined to his room with a stomach bug.
Successive glasses of wine had turned
an amusing anecdote into knicker-wetting hilarity, and as the Monitor
boomed forth with Haydon Groat’s concluding remarks on Polaris,
Terrence Gale peered round the door to summon the troops to vote.
They greeted him with squeals and
whoops. Gissy was practically crying.
He must have thought they were
laughing at him…..
She got through the remainder of the
day – somehow.
The noxious certainty that her entire
Parliamentary career had been pole-axed at the outset because the
Chief Whip thought (wrongly) that she had been let into the secret of
a friend’s abortive non- sexual encounter with him (before she
had met Gissy Wicks) was more unbearable than the persecution she
had endured at the hands of Edgar Smith and the local Party beasts;
worse even than her defeat and subsequent difficulties in making
financial ends meet.
Year on year, she had sat in the office
at re-huffle time, listening to Ida’s consolatory homilies:
In my view, it counts more with the
voters if you’re a good constituency MP - too many of the Ministers
never even visit their own patches!
knowing that she had about as much
chance as a flying penguin of placing a flipper upon even the lowest
rung of the promotional ladder – and watching the likes of the
hapless and ability-challenged Alice Patterson scale the incline from
PPS to Junior Minister, to Minister of State to ----Cabinet.
Alice Patterson….
There, staring from the rogues gallery
of Ponia’s Picks was a mug shot of Alice – to the right of
Haydon Groat and behind Bill Cornish.
Ponia had composed a form sheet
about the refreshed Cabinet’s runners'n'riders – the
select few predicted to, in the words of Elizabeth Windsor to the
Prince of Wales on his marriage to Camilla Parker- Bowles : overcome
Becher’s Brook and the Chair and all kinds of other obstacles
to attain the Holy Grail of political success.
Ainsley Beadle afforded the motley
crew a patina of respectability; the political veteran could have
deputised for Betty Kenward of the late lamented Jennifer’s
Diary in each and every circumstance - a hurricane, a tsunami or
a military coup, bolstered by graded pearls and never a hair astray.
As for Alice, The Crier had
chosen the most unflattering image it could find, begging the
question – where had they found it and in what
circumstances…..?
Patterson, charged by Wendy to lead the
new Department of Consumer Affairs, appeared to be executing a
cross between a wink and a leer to camera and the black roots of her
blonde hair owed more to accident than design.
The deshabillee effect was ill-fitting
for Westminster; perfect for Shepherd’s Market; and entirely in
keeping with the tone of Ponia’s commentary:
Alice Patterson; Wendy Runcible’s
new consumers’ champion, is the first politician to hold a post of
this nature since Shirley Williams carried all before her as Minister
for Consumer Protection. And MPs say the cap fits!
‘Spot on!’ commented a Cabinet
colleague who wished to remain nameless. ‘No-one knows more about
the doctrine of Conspicuous Consumption than Alice!’
Ms Patterson has held the rock-
solid seat of Hegworth Central since bursting onto the national scene
as a candidate in 2001 after trouncing two former MPs and the Leader
of Hegworth District Council at a controversial selection conference.
She is a vocal supporter of her geographical neighbour, Chief Whip
Terrence Gale and a convivial figure on the Westminster scene.
As she smarted from the back story of
her own inglorious career; Alice Patterson’s meteoric rise was
abundantly clear:
Fools rush in where angels fear to
tread.
But Alice had not been a fool. She had
shown exemplary acuity and must have been showing it with commendable
regularity ever since the pre 1997 Election rally at Silvercliffe
when she had adorned the lounge of a rented apartment with vomit
after consuming copious amounts of Mr Weston’s good wine at
a Scottish ceilidh.
She had locked herself in the bathroom
alongside the clothes of Terrence Gale, who had vacated the premises
without them, following his rebuff in the kitchen at the hands of
candidate, Gissy Wicks. .
Gale could not have been certain what,
if anything, Alice Patterson knew about the matter and must have
moved swiftly to disarm and doubtless, disrobe her, in
interests of evading tabloid exposure and preserving his marriage and
career. And a safe seat and Cabinet post in return for favours in
kind was a price that neither of them minded paying.
So far, so clear, she mused, opening a
packet of Mr Kipling’s Cakes, but she was still no wiser
about why she had been invited to the Westminster party of a man who
had loathed her for 37 years; or why a Chief Whip who had been
thrilled to see the back of her – had telephoned, bearing gifts.
But had he?
Terrence Gale had scarcely spoken to
her in The Sceptre Room – although now that she thought about it,
he had certainly glanced her way more than once.
Of course, her eyes had been blinded
by Ben Bex-Oliver…..
Terrence’s call earlier in the day
had been a peculiar mixture of effusiveness and evasion – on the
one hand seeming to assure her that the candidacy of Dorlich West was
hers for the taking - and at the end of the conversation appearing to
resile from that position with praise for Billy Grainger and a tepid
promise to call again.
In the words of Emma Woodhouse:
It was a jumble without taste or
truth. Who could have seen through such thick-headed nonsense?
One thing, however, was not open to
interpretation.
Until about just over a month ago, she
had heard nothing whatsoever from Terrence, Derek or indeed any of
her former Parliamentary colleagues –for nearly ten years!!
There were times when they could have
made their presence felt – not least in the run – up to the
Fengrove Constituency Party’s selection of Macey Cline as her
successor.
Spiteful comments about her had
abounded on Vlad – the most printable being words to the
effect that whatever Cline did, short of being arraigned as a serial
killer in the style of Aileen Wuornos; she must be an
improvement on the former MP, who had shamed the very initials of
the post.
Milder commentary in the same strain
had popped up in the papers with not-so veiled references to her
notoriety as former drinking companion of Radical Raven,
Gissy Wicks with a suggestion that supplies of wine in The
Regular Suite lasted much longer now that Gissy was forced to drink
on her own instead of forming one of the notorious Parliamentary
Glimmer Twins.
Had Gale, Cornish, Beadle, Groat
……indeed any of them , come to her defence?
THEY HAD NOT
So what was different now?
Why was a former Parliamentary pariah
now being courted by all and sundry?
The weasel blandishments of Mike Stubbs
came to mind, not to mention, the
carefully calibrated references to Traynor – even Wendy herself?
They were all singing from the same
hymn sheet and the selection of hymn had mysteriously coincided with
the abandonment of Sandra Milford by her husband Bill Cornish, who
had set up home with gay lover, Clifford Morledge.
The phone was ringing – and had been
for at least a minute.
Vanessa.
She found it hard to concentrate upon
what her daughter was saying; the line was bad and to be honest, her
mind was buzzing with Westminster ---in the way that it had been
when Vanessa had called her at the office, more often than not, about
a school matter – or a friendship crisis – or a new pair of
trainers ---- during her eight year tenure as the MP for Fengrove.
Vanessa was saying something about Paul
and his Will --- and OH GOD -- she had completely forgotten
that her daughter had been invited to the reading of the Will of
Vanessa’s father who was also her own ex-husband. It was bound to
be a horrible and traumatic experience; it was taking place NEXT
WEEK; Vanessa was driving down a few days in advance and had
been contacted by Nicky Jellicoe ( Nicola) asking if she’d
like to meet up?
She attempted to cover for the fact
that she had totally forgotten about the approach of what was sure to
be the most memorable event of her daughter’s life to date.
And that Vanessa would be exposed to
the casual ( and deliberate in Gillian’s case) cruelty of all
Paul’s horrible relatives – not to mention the sanctimonious
Ursula who, as a six-year-old, had angrily insisted that Tiny Tears
did poos as well as wees, whatever the evidence to the
contrary.
She had let Vanessa down and stood, for
the entire world, like Helen Burns on the stool at Lowood in
Jane Eyre with the placard saying Slattern around her
neck.
In her case it would have been the Not
Good Enough Mother...
Well – I’ll call you when I’m
back – if you’re interested….snapped Vanessa and ended the
call.
And as she sat at her cracked glass
table with Mr Kipling’s Cakes; Ponia’s Picks and a wine
glass containing the dregs of her consumed, but untasted, glass of
Chardonnay, the church bells of the nearby St Michael and All
Souls announced the evening service.
She crept into the wheel-backed chair
and remembered the Oxbridge set and Paul ordering her to search for a
missing book.
Sweetie – we need the Annotated
Donne – didn’t you use it recently?
Not recently…..
Paul; Derek; Terrence; Bill;
Vanessa; Lynne; Sandra; Gissy…..
Ask not for whom the bell tolls –
it tolls for thee
Perchance I may think myself better
than I am
Herself….
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