Damian let him rabbit on for a short while, answering the odd question, but becoming increasingly impatient. He was saved by the rumble of his mobile. With an apology, he extracted it from his pocket.
“Where the hell are you?” It was Chloe.
“Don’t know exactly. I’m trying to find out.”
“Bill and Ben are in hysterics: want to alert the police, close all borders, summon the Cobra team. How soon will you be back?”
“Just a mo. I’ll check.”
He found the newsagent eyeing him with a grin: “Your good lady not happy?”
“Lunch is on the table. Threatening to start without me. Any idea how long it’ll take to get back? To Tichbold’s?”
“I would need at least half an hour, but you… if you’re half the man you once were…maybe ten minutes.”
“How do I get there?”
“See that pub on the corner….well, take the footpath on the far side, follow it for about a mile…..”“
Damian tried to lock the stream of instructions into his head. Cut the man short when he reckoned he’d got it. Time for a sprint down the home straight.
“Thanks for your help!” Damian waved a goodbye and shot out of the shop. The last thing he saw was the dawning of full recognition in the newsagent’s face.
46
Halfway home the heavens opened. By that time Damian was going full blast, so the cooling effect was welcome. But it was a sodden and out-of-breath scarecrow that finally burst through the Tichbold’s back door.
“Off with those clothes! Into the shower!” Chloe was becoming quite bossy.
“Can’t have nude dining,” said Adam. “We must be about the same size round the nether regions, so he can have a pair of my boxer shorts.”
“I’ll lend him a spare dressing gown,” said Hermione. “Rinse out the clothes; put them in the airing cupboard. With luck, he should be presentable for the journey home.”
“If not, I’m sure you can let him have your robe on an extended loan, my dear,” said Adam. “Prime minister arrives back in Number Ten dressed for bed! That should keep the gossip writers happy.”
Damian took the ribbing in good part. Little else he could do. But in truth he was also happy. Hadn’t realised how much the past two weeks of physical sloth had taken its toll. He needed exercise like a druggie depended on his daily shots, so the run had returned him to top form.
Now scrubbed and smelling civilised, dressed in his host’s underpants, his own pullover left behind before the run, and his hostess’s robe and slippers, the prime minister made his entrée to the Tichbold drawing room. Went straight to Bessie Robotham and gave her a hug. When arranging the get-together Adam had at first not mentioned Bessie, which Damian suspected had been deliberate: if their past history gave Bessie problems with Adam, the converse must also be true. Neither would be comfortable in the other’s company. But Damian had insisted on her presence and Adam had immediately agreed. Bessie had arrived while Damian had been on his run.
“We’re already running late,” Hermione pointed out, giving Damian a reproachful look. “The sooner we eat the better.”
“In a moment, my dear.” Adam was approaching Damian, offering a glass of wine. “We’re having sirloin of beef, so I trust red will be acceptable?”
“Of course.”
“A Nuits St.Georges, nine years old, so should be quite drinkable.” Tichbold was a wine traditionalist: Burgundy or Bordeaux for preference; some German whites were almost acceptable: Italy, Spain…? Maybe. The New World…? Perhaps one day. His cellar was legendary.
“Before going in to lunch, I would like to reflect for a moment. Remember an old friend and in my case….” Adam smiled. “…In my case an old opponent. Ladies and gentlemen: Gerry Farthing.”
“To Gerry.”
Silence, except for the slow intake of Burgundy. No eye remained dry.
Damian was the first to find his voice, although there was a catch in it: “Have they selected another leader yet?”
“You know the Labour party,” replied Adam. “Choosing a leader takes forever and is more painful than childbirth.”
“Come on, we’ll continue this discussion round the table,” ordered Hermione, leading the way in.
“I hear Iran has chipped in with some nice words,” said Bessie. “Maybe we are no longer children of Satan.”
“Gerry espoused some interesting causes,” said Adam, as they sat down. “Some were lost causes, but all were interesting. He was Westminster’s unchallenged expert on Iran; knew much more about the country than me and I was supposed to be foreign secretary.”
“They won’t be remembering Gerry with their best booze in Teheran,” said Damian.
Adam laughed: “Orange juice, more like. I’m something of a wine buff and remember once tasting an Iranian vintage. From the Shah’s time, of course. Thousand and One, they called it. Pretty nasty stuff, but I was amazed they even had a wine industry. No doubt now classed as the devil’s brew: the Mullahs won’t allow it.”
Reminiscing about the deceased’s quirks had lightened the mood. Hermione’s excellent cooking and Adam’s Nuits St.Georges did the rest. The hammering of rain on the windows and Britain’s population plummeting under the worst plague for a century, all for the moment forgotten.
47
It was after three by the time they extracted themselves from the dining room and ambled into the lounge, where Hermione had dispensed coffee. Hermione herself had more important matters to deal with than running the country: clearing up after the meal and making sure Fidget was happy. So the quorum on that April afternoon was just four: for the government there was the Prime Minister, Minister without Portfolio and Home Secretary. Representing the Fourth Estate was a reporter from the Oxford Herald, now in the position all journalists dream of but rarely achieve, so much part of the scenery that no one questioned her presence.
“So you want to bring the election forward?” asked Adam, placing his coffee carefully on a small table and easing himself into a deep chair.
“I’ve been advised it might be a good idea,” replied Damian.
“Advised by whom?”
“My election agent and guru, Alec Warbeck.”
“Oxfordshire starting to wobble?”
“Alec thinks the whole country may wobble if we dither much longer. I’ve called this meeting to canvas opinion. As all good prime ministers should.”
“Back again to the example of India in forty seven,” mused Adam. “History has not been kind to Mountbatten; says he panicked, gave away the jewel in the crown far too quickly; the partition riots and slaughter all his fault. But it’s one of those stupid ‘what if’ arguments. We’ll never know. My view, for what it’s worth – probably not much – is that waiting any longer would have been even more disastrous. A quick surgical amputation was the lesser evil.”
“I don’t thing Gerry would have approved any similar butchery,” said Bessie.
“Gerry is no longer with us,” said Damian quickly, keen to quell any argument between the two old protagonists. “We’re the ones left carrying the baby, even if Gerry was the one who gave it birth. And I tend to agree with my friend Alec – and Adam: we have to get a move on.”
Bessie: “How fast exactly?”
Damian: “I like the French idea of Sunday elections. So let’s say three weeks from now: April the twenty eighth.”
Bessie: “That’s much earlier than Gerry would have wanted.”
Damian: “Gerry was never a Speedy Gonzales. But I am. If the training of returning officers and all the machinery of our new system is not fully rehearsed in another three weeks, so be it. An STV count is tedious at the best of times. We’ll have experts on hand to help if things get sticky and just take a little longer.”
“What about all that interesting legislation we’re trying to push through before the curtain falls?” asked Bessie.
“We have a blitz,” said Adam. “Do what we can in the time available. I believ
e Damian’s keen to save the National Health Service?”
Bessie: “Don’t be silly! People have been trying to save the NHS since the day it was invented. All have failed.”
Damian: “So we try again. Most MPs are too scared of losing their seats to do anything adventurous, so I’m prepared to carry the can for anything we try. After all, I’m the Night Watchman. Expendable. Just holding the fort until the higher order batsman can take over again. That’s you, Adam.”
Tichbold squirmed. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that.”
“I believe you once did. Said you reserved the right to challenge me for the leadership once we had a full parliament.”
“Actually, you’ve been doing pretty well…..”
“Cut the flannel, you old rogue.” Damian was grinning, not a bit put out. “We all know the score. It’s a fluke I’m here. You’re the political heavyweight. When normal service is resumed, you’ll take your rightful place at the head table.”
Bessie, softly: “The scum always rises to the top.”
“Shut up, Bessie!” Now Damian was angry. “We’re in this together, so keep personal squabbles out of it. The point is if I take the flak for any contentious legislation, it’ll leave you two in the clear for the next parliament.”
“I don’t like that word ‘contentious’, said Adam.
“Few people do,” said Damian. “But we’re living in a brief window of opportunity when radical change may be possible….”
Bessie: “You can’t live in a window….”
Damian ignored her and continued: “…After a struggle lasting a century and a half, we’ve at last managed to bury our ancient voting system. Let’s try and kill off a few more sacred cows while we’re at it.”
“If your proposals are too crazy, you won’t get them through parliament,” Adam pointed out.
“I might. Our interim parliament is not only much slimmer than the previous model, it’s also very different. When AfroAir demolished the House of Commons, it removed the cream of its inhabitants. You two and Gerry were almost the only ones from the old lot to survive. The masters and prefects have mostly gone, leaving the new boys and girls to run the show. Kids like me might take the opportunity to indulge in a little rebellion. As kids do.”
“What changes would you like to make?” asked Bessie.
“Actually, nothing ‘crazy’. Just sensible. But they’ll be unpalatable, which is why they’ve been funked for so long.”
Bessie: “Spell it out.”
“Today’s NHS is a world away from the original concept, which was that good health should not depend on having a good bank balance. It’s now seen as a bottomless pit of goodies which everyone has a right to plunder. If a woman can’t have kids, she’s off to the fertility clinic for treatment costing a fortune; if you eat yourself silly and reach thirty stone, there’s an obesity clinic to sort you out for nothing – actually not for nothing, because someone has to pay and that someone is the rest of us who are not into self harm; as for the legions of hypochondriacs, most GPs are only too ready to get rid of them with endless prescriptions – again at our expense.”
“So no more IVF, no more fatty clinics, no more free pills?” asked Bessie.
“You’ve got it,” replied Damian. “The country can’t afford it. We’re effectively bust and need to re-establish some basic principles. If you are genuinely skint, then the state will continue to provide necessities like food and basic medicine. Beyond that, if you want something, you pay for it.”
“There’ll be rioting in the streets,” said Bessie.
“Probably,” said the Prime Minister. “With the ringleaders summoning their troops using the latest smart-phones. We now have a new definition of ‘poverty’.”
“The Roman Empire collapsed because the plebs got hooked on free bread and circuses,” mused Adam. “Perhaps we’re headed the same way.”
Damian nodded: “We either reform or go under. Not only should you pay for what you want, there should also be an obligation to work for any money received. Again, apart from a safety net for the genuinely disabled.”
Bessie: “So no more benefits?”
Damian: “Any fit person receiving unemployment benefit will have to turn up for work should they be needed. Fruit picking in season, removing graffiti and litter picking any time….”
Bessie: “I thought litter was reserved for those doing porridge?”
Damian: “You know what I mean, Bessie. The elderly and decrepit, those that have done a decent life’s work, will have earned the right to sit in front of the telly all day. But we’re breeding a generation of perfectly fit youngsters who think it’s their right to develop square eyes in front of the box. A generation that believes money grows on trees. A generation with an idleness ethic. Maybe we’re only talking about a minority, but there’s enough of them to cost us a fortune. And they could turn dangerous. If you’ve grown up believing you have a divine right to eat the state’s sweets and then the state suddenly takes these treats away, you’ll probably throw a tantrum.”
“You may be right, but this is Contentious with a capital C,” said Adam. “Next thing we know there’ll be guillotines in Whitehall.”
“I aim to draft two bills,” said the prime minister, unperturbed. “A National Health Service reform bill. And a Benefits reform bill. Try and get the House to accept them. If they’re rejected, at least I’ll have tried.”
“You won’t have time,” said Bessie. “Not if you also want an election in three weeks.”
“It’s amazing how fast you can get legislation through the House if you really try,” said Damian. “Remember the Fixed Term Parliament? One of the wheezes dreamt up by Cameron and Clegg. That disappeared, like a puff of smoke, overnight.”
“You’re in a double bind,” Adam pointed out. “Taking on not only complex and…..” he grinned “…. contentious legislation. You also need to get yourself re-elected. Or don’t you intend to hang around after this brief moment of glory?”
“I certainly do mean to ‘hang around’.” Damian gave the other two a long hard look. “Maybe not from Number Ten, but making life a misery for Bessie from the back benches was such fun I’d happily go back to that.”
“In that case, you can’t afford to neglect our lords and masters, the electorate,” said Adam. “Under the old system we three were lucky enough to have safe seats. Come an election, we’d put on a bit of a show and prance around the constituency saying the right things, but we knew nothing we said or did made the slightest difference: the bookies were laying better odds on an alien invasion than us losing. Gerry’s new dream-child has changed all that. There’s no longer any such thing as a safe seat.”
“True enough,” admitted Damian. “My patch of Mid Oxon has been merged into the bigger constituency Oxfordshire, which will return three MPs: would have been four had we not also reduced the number of MPs. The main parties will all put up three candidates, but which of the three emerges top of the poll, with the best chance of going to Westminster, will be up to the voters.”
“Any idea how thing are shaping up for you?” asked Adam.
Damian: “The rural areas are heavily Tory, while the city of Oxford is equally solid for Labour: academics and students love to dream the socialist dream. Who will win the third seat is an interesting question. Certainly not Labour, so it’ll be a scramble between the Lib Dems and us.”
“Meanwhile, we’re fighting like cat and dog amongst ourselves to be the one to top our own poll,” said Adam.
“Which is as it should be,” said Damian. “With a preferential system most voters will not only get an MP from their favourite party, they’ll also be able to influence which individuals of that party go to Westminster.”
“In that case it’s time to pack our bags and take the first train home,” said Chloe.
All eyes turned to reporter Pettigrew.
“You’ve been pretty quiet,” said Adam. “Thought you hacks were wordsmiths.”
Chloe smiled. “We’re merely recorders of events. It’s not our job to influence those events, although that’s what some of my colleagues try to do.”
“You’re the Homer to our Odyssey”, said Adam. This produced some bemused looks, so he added: “Sorry about that. Eton gave me a classical education: not much use in the modern world. Homer was a hack who recorded events in blank verse. I trust you’ll be equally poetic with us, Chloe.”
Chloe smiled: “Of course, Adam. But as most of us did not go to Eton, I won’t be doing it in Greek. Just plain English. If that’s okay?”
Bessie: “What she means is she’s taking everything down to use in evidence against us,” said Bessie.
“No harm in that,” said Adam. “If you can’t stand up to the press, you shouldn’t be in this job.”
Seeing another Robotham-Tichbold feud brewing, Damian cut in quickly: “Ccan we settle on Sunday the twenty eighth of April for the election?”
Tichbold: “Done!”
Robotham, after a pause: “I suppose so.”
Damian: “In the meantime I’ll bulldoze what legislation I can through the House. Call for dissolution at the last possible moment. And that….would seem to be that?” He looked around questioningly.
There was a moment’s silence. Then Adam said: “We meet at Philippi.”
More blank stares, so he added: “That damned classical education again! Shakespeare’s words from his play Julius Caesar, when the conspirators agreed to meet up again at Philippi.”
If you’re planning to stick a dagger into Damian’s toga, I’ll thank you to leave it until after the election,” said Chloe. “Never mind Philippi: we’re off to Paddington. To catch a train home.”
Chloe was wrong. She had forgotten that her lover’s current job, like Caesar’s, carried the bonus of possible assassination. They would be returning to Wheatley in the Prime Ministerial limo, guarded by Bill and Ben.
NIGHT WATCHMAN Page 17