“Did she mention where the funeral is going to be held?”
“St Mark’s Church.”
“Right.”
I hate funerals as much as the next man, but I particularly hate church funerals — they are no place for an atheist. Despite attending a Christian school, I have long since come to the conclusion there is no God. My opinion was forged during my teenage years, at my mother’s bedside, watching her waste away. Where was God then? My prayers went unanswered as I watched her die. Consequently, I’m often lost for words when it comes to offering the bereaved comfort. My platitudes about better places and eternal peace carry the stench of insincerity.
“William?”
“Sorry, Rosa,” I splutter, returning to reality. “I was just thinking about Arthur.”
“Were you close?”
“Not especially, but I knew him well enough.”
Rosa steps around the desk and places a hand on my shoulder. It’s not in her job description, but I appreciate the attempt to offer comfort, even though her touch only heightens the feelings I’m already struggling to quell.
“Would you like me to call Mrs Henderson?” she asks in a soft voice.
“No, thank you. I’ll call her now.”
Rosa’s fingers linger on my shoulder before she turns away and heads back to her desk. With such a solemn task to perform, it would be inappropriate to watch her shimmy away. I stare at the phone and dial Nora Henderson’s number.
Seventeen long, painful minutes ensue. I do my best to keep her spirits buoyed and offer a few amusing anecdotes about Arthur. She cries, a lot. I’m not sure my anecdotes help and I end the call with the poor woman in a much worse state than she was seventeen minutes earlier.
“Not your forte, William?” Rosa remarks from the other side of the office.
“What isn’t?”
“Tea and sympathy.”
“You noticed?”
“I could hear Mrs Henderson sobbing from over here.”
“I tried my best, but what can you say?”
Rosa shakes her head. “It’s not about saying anything, William. It’s about listening.”
“You think my anecdotes were inappropriate?”
“Maybe a little.”
I suppose she has a point, and I consider calling Nora back. However, one thing I’ve learnt in my time serving as a politician is that deeds are greater than words.
“Can you send her some flowers please, Rosa, and a card.”
“Would you like me to write the message?”
“I think that might be sensible.”
She nods and scribbles a note to herself. I return to my list of calls.
I manage to strike four calls from the list before I’m due at my next meeting. Rosa furnishes me with the necessary paperwork and I leave the office again, destined for another meeting I’d rather not attend.
The only consolation is my route passes through the cathedral-like central lobby; an octagonal hall constructed in stone, with an intricately tiled floor, mosaic-covered walls, and grand arched windows. No matter how many times I’ve passed through it over the years, I’m still taken with the same sense of wonderment I experienced on the first occasion.
Beyond the breathtaking architecture and decoration, there is an almost palpable aura of historical reverence. Many times, when the lobby is closed to the public and the palace is near silent, I have taken a seat on one of the leather benches positioned around the perimeter. I have enjoyed moments of quiet reflection and visualised the great men and women whose footsteps once echoed through the hallowed lobby: kings and queens, popes and presidents, and figures who had carved their place in history. Perhaps a ridiculous notion considering my atheism, but I occasionally sensed the presence of their spirits, and in particular, one spirit who cast the longest shadow — Sir Charles Augustus Huxley.
Today, alas, there is no time to reflect on architectural majesty, or figments of an overactive imagination.
My meeting proves to be every bit as tedious as I had feared. Two hours of discussion on a subject I have little interest in, with colleagues who can’t see beyond their own agendas. Such a waste of time. Just for once I wish the wheels of bureaucracy could be lubricated with a little common sense. My wish is futile though, and the wheels continue to grind and jar like I suppose they always have and always will.
Fortunately, lunchtime brings some respite. I head back to my office to find Rosa putting her coat on.
“I’m just going to grab a sandwich. Can I get you anything?” she asks.
“No, thank you. I might pop out for some fresh air shortly. I’ll pick something up while I’m out.”
She smiles at me as she buttons up her coat. “Fancy some company?”
Don’t embrace false hope, William.
“That’s very kind but I have a speech to prepare for later. I don’t think I’d be good company.”
“Oh, okay. If you’re sure,” she replies. She then turns her collar up and heads for the door.
Perhaps I imagined it, but I’m sure I detected the slightest trace of disappointment in her voice. It could just as easily have been relief, though, and I instantly dismiss it. I possess too little experience to understand the nuances of the female vernacular.
I sit down at my desk and run through my commitments for the afternoon: two back-to-back meetings, a debate in the house which will almost certainly attract no more than a dozen or so members, and finally, I’ve pulled the short straw to give a speech at a business event north of the river.
Much like my life, the outlook for the rest of the day appears dull and uninspiring.
I clear a couple of the more urgent calls from Rosa’s list and leave the office in search of lunch. I could choose to eat at the subsidised member’s canteen but socialising with colleagues does quash my appetite somewhat.
Once I’ve navigated security, and the throngs of tourists in Parliament Square, I take a stroll through the quieter back streets towards St James’s Park. I pop in to a sandwich shop and order the same thing I order every single day: chicken salad on whole wheat bread, with the merest lick of Dijon mustard. I no longer have to ask for my order, such is my predictability. I like predictability. I like routine.
Sandwich acquired, I head for St James’s Park and locate an empty bench. The early October sun provides just enough warmth to be comfortable and the park is relatively busy with tourists and office workers taking advantage of the mild autumn weather. As I sit and eat, people pass without a glance in my direction.
I am fortunate, unlike a number of my colleagues, to enjoy anonymity. No journalists or paparazzi are interested in anything I do, or say for that matter, and that suits me just fine. I have no desire for media attention, nor do I wish to become one of those celebrity politicians who leaves the commons for a stint on Celebrity Big Brother or some other god-awful reality show. No shame, some people.
And of course, there are those who unwittingly attract the media spotlight due to an indiscretion or lack of good judgement. Extra marital affairs, drugs, prostitution, gambling, alcoholism — the men and women who serve in parliament are no more virtuous or immune from life’s temptations than the rest of the population. The only difference is the media love a good scandal involving a politician and we make for easy prey. I’ve seen good colleagues have their lives torn apart for some minor indiscretion that would go unnoticed in any workplace but ours. It doesn’t seem fair, but public scrutiny comes with the job and requires us to live saintly lives. That’s not so difficult for me, but some of my colleagues do find it a chore.
I finish my sandwich and sit for a few minutes; simply to enjoy the tepid sunlight and distinctive scent of London in autumn.
All too soon I feel compelled to check my watch — forty minutes until my next meeting. With a puff of my cheeks, I reluctantly climb to my feet and take a slow walk back to the office.
I return to find Rosa on her mobile phone, listening intently to whoever is on the other end of the
line. I wonder if it’s a boyfriend, or potential suitor. I know she’s not married as there’s no ring on her finger. She’s never mentioned a partner but I can’t imagine such a fine woman wouldn’t be without her pick of admirers. I’ve never brought the subject up because I’m fairly sure I don’t want to hear the answer.
“I’ve got to go,” she says hurriedly before disconnecting the call without a goodbye.
I glance across at her, half expecting a throwaway comment about who she was talking to; like people apologetically do when taking a personal call in the workplace. No such comment is forthcoming. Perhaps she’s embarrassed, or conscious her three-month probation period is still in force. I’m a little disappointed she thinks I’m petty enough to chastise her for making the odd personal call.
“Nice lunch?” she asks while slipping her phone into her handbag.
“Most pleasant, thank you. I hope I didn’t interrupt an important call.”
“No. Nobody important.”
She smiles but doesn’t expand on her answer. Part of me is relieved she didn’t confirm she was chatting to a partner. I let it go.
“Oh, I’ve sorted your phone,” she calls across the office, changing the subject.
With much enthusiasm, she scuttles over and sits down at my desk. I’m then given a concise tutorial on using the device. I had no idea a small block of glass and plastic could do so much, and by the time we’re through, I have to begrudgingly admit the new phone is indeed much smarter than my dumb Nokia.
Phone sorted, I grab the folders I require for my meetings and ask Rosa to ring a few people on the list to see if she can deal with their queries. In many cases, people think I have some magic wand I can wave at their problems. Granted, a sternly worded letter on parliament stationery does often help, but there are simply too many people with too many problems for one man to deal with.
“I’ll probably go from my meetings straight to the house, so I won’t be back until late afternoon.”
Rosa nods and I head off to my first meeting.
I can’t recall his name, but a famous American economist once quipped that meetings are a great way to appear busy while achieving nothing — both my meetings offer credence to that statement.
Two hours later I enter the house, or the House of Commons to give it its full name; the heart of parliament where the elected members debate and vote on bills. Once a bill is approved, it’s then sent to the House of Lords for scrutiny and ratification. Dozens of bills are put to the house every week and attendance of members is usually determined by how important or contentious the bill is. The debate in the house this afternoon relates to a bill on vehicle noise limits; a subject clearly of little interest to the majority of members judging by the woeful turnout. There are over six hundred members of parliament and just sixteen are present.
I do my best to engage in the debate but it’s so intolerably mind-numbing, my attention drifts for long periods. When one of my colleagues launches into a lengthy diatribe about the evils of noise pollution, the small audience collectively groans. By the time it’s over, I’m so utterly bored of the subject, I simply abstain from voting on the basis I have no idea if the bill is worthwhile or just another piece of needless legislation.
I finally escape, and with less than an hour before I’m due to give my speech, I hurry back to my office.
Another list awaits me.
“I’ve tried to deal with as many as I could but this lot insist on talking to you,” Rosa says apologetically, handing me the list.
“They’ll have to wait until tomorrow. I’m running late.”
I print off a copy of my speech and tuck it into my jacket pocket. I then check my appearance in a small mirror, affixed to the inside of the door. I’m not a vain man, but I’d rather not deliver my speech with a crooked tie or stray tuft of hair.
“How’s my diary looking tomorrow morning?” I ask Rosa while adjusting my tie.
“You’re in luck. Your ten o’clock meeting has been postponed so there’s nothing until the afternoon.”
“That’s a relief.”
“And you look fine,” she adds.
I feel my cheeks flush at Rosa’s compliment, if indeed it was even intended as a compliment. People say fine all the time and it now lacks any real meaning: How are you? I’m fine. How was the meal? It was fine. Something that is neither good nor bad is just fine. Perhaps that makes it the perfect word to describe my physical appearance. Or perhaps I’m just over analysing a throwaway remark.
“Thank you,” I reply, still facing the mirror so Rosa can’t see my pink cheeks.
I bid her a good evening and hurry out of the office, hoping I’ve left sufficient time for my journey, and that my speech is slightly better than fine.
5.
The tube carriage is packed with commuters and I’m grateful the journey from Westminster to Temple is only a few minutes. I escape the crush, scoot up to the station concourse, and make my way towards The Strand; one of London’s most famous roads where the likes of Charles Dickens and Virginia Woolf once lived. My destination is The Montgomery; an imposing Art Deco hotel where two hundred guests are awaiting my speech at six o’clock sharp.
This is one of many events I’m asked to attend throughout the year and they usually fall into one of three categories: events in my constituency which benefit the community or local business, charity events which are always good for the party’s public relations, and then there are events which return a favour for a party benefactor, or a lobby group whose interests align with ours.
In this instance, the event has been arranged by an organisation that represent independent retailers, and want to highlight the plight of town centres, particularly in some of our key marginal constituencies. I’m guessing they would have ideally liked the Minister for Business to attend, but he was unavailable, and so was their second, third, and fourth choice of speaker. So, they’re stuck with me, and the only reason I’ve been sent is because I once sat on the backbench business committee. Essentially, the organisers asked for a box office name and have been sent an extra.
With fifteen minutes to spare, I make my way through the lavishly decorated foyer and head towards the conference hall at the rear of the building. I’ve attended events at this particular venue many times and spoken on two prior occasions, so I know what to expect — a crowd of suits who are completely indifferent to a politician’s views and will therefore spend the entirety of my speech eyeing the free bar. I am merely the bread before a liquid banquet.
I approach the entrance where a makeshift reception desk has been set up. Two middle-aged men in grey suits are stood behind the desk, checking-in the delegates and handing out name badges on bright red lanyards. I approach the nearest man.
“William Huxley, here for the first speech.”
“Ah, yes, Mr Huxley. We were expecting you at five thirty.”
“I beg your pardon,” I reply with a frown. “I wasn’t told that.”
“I’m pretty sure we would have informed your office what time to arrive.”
“I doubt it. My personal assistant is extremely efficient.”
“Nevertheless, I’m afraid we’ve already moved your slot.”
“To where?”
“Third slot from the end.”
“So how long before I’m on?”
“Oh, not too long,” he replies dismissively. “Maybe an hour or so.”
Just as I’m about to protest, a voice booms from the public-address system to advise the first speech is imminent, and the free bar is closed.
“Sorry, Mr Huxley, I’m required elsewhere,” the man squawks. “Jeremy here will sort you out,” he adds, before leaving his befuddled companion to placate me.
Jeremy tells me there is free water available by the now-closed bar and they’ve reserved a seat for me at the back of the room.
“Somebody will come and collect you five minutes before your slot.”
He hands me a name badge, and before I can rais
e a complaint, he scuttles away.
This day just gets better and better.
I turn and survey the sea of heads facing the stage. The chairs have been arranged into two blocks, each ten seats across and ten deep, with an aisle running down the middle. I slope over to my allocated seat and tear away the sheet of paper taped to the back; my name scrawled across it in marker pen.
The woman in the adjoining seat turns, looks up at me, and smiles. I’m immediately dumbstruck. She’s maybe thirty years of age with dark, shoulder-length hair, and dressed in a perfectly tailored business suit.
With my irritation immediately quashed, I return an embarrassed smile and take my seat.
I keep my gaze fixed on the stage and try to ignore the prickly sensation that comes from being in such close proximity to an attractive woman. Her perfume engulfs me; a floral scent, heavy on the patchouli. I take a quick glance towards the floor and stare at her high-heeled shoes, probably designer, and her naked ankles. Perhaps it’s my imagination, but I’m sure I can feel the warmth of her body, radiating towards me.
The only way to ease the awkwardness is to concentrate on my speech. Just as I’m about to pluck it from my pocket, I feel a light tap on my shoulder. My head snaps to the left to find the woman smiling at me again.
“Excuse me. May I ask a favour?” she asks.
“Um…yes, of course.”
“I just want to grab a glass of water before they start. Would you mind watching my seat?”
I nod and she touches me on the shoulder again. “Thank you.”
The woman then gets up and glides towards a table by the bar, laden with bottled water and glasses.
I try to pull myself together as I watch her go. This is ridiculous. For ten years I’ve stood and debated in the House of Commons; the most vociferous, intimidating forum in the land, yet upon meeting an attractive woman, I become a blubbering wreck.
What is wrong with me?
It’s a purely rhetorical question because I know full well what’s wrong with me. I spent fourteen of my formative years at an all-boys school, and with no siblings I had little opportunity to develop relationships with any females, besides my mother. By the time I started university, the problem was already so deeply entrenched I avoided girls wherever possible. I chose to bury myself in my studies rather than confront my shyness. That, in hindsight, was a mistake, and one I’m still paying for today.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 3