by Sue Townsend
Then she saw that he was addressing a birdcage in which sat a tatty little budgie the colour of her favourite blue pencil.
Her dad said his name was Peter.
The cage was cramped and rusting but within hours of Peter’s arrival a new cage and stand had been delivered together with what a pet-shop owner in Pimlico described as ‘state of the art budgie accessories.
♦
Later that afternoon Estelle knelt on a chair in the sitting room and observed Peter closely, wondering how old he was; according to the Internet, budgies had a lifespan of six to nine years. Estelle thought that Peter looked tired and fed up, a bit like the middle-aged people she was surrounded by in her own cage in Downing Street. She hardened her heart against being sad and prepared herself for the day when he would die. Everything died: people, flowers, birds, fish, mothers and fathers, babies and dogs, stars and trees. In the end, Estelle thought, nothing we do makes any difference.
She had once said this to her mother and Adele had said that existentialism was no excuse for not doing her homework. Mum said that Dad was a good example of somebody who had made a difference; he had already changed the face of British politics.
♦
Morgan slept until midday, then he threw on his combats and put on his big boots and went downstairs to welcome his father back. Poor Dad was going through a stack of red boxes, but when he saw Morgan he put down his pen and held out his arms and said, “Morgan, darling, how are you, son?”
Morgan knocked his knees against the corner of the desk in his haste to be embraced by his father.
“What was it like in the bunker, Dad?” he said. “Was it cool?”
“I learned an awful lot about myself, Morgan,” the Prime Minister answered.
“Like what?” asked Morgan.
The Prime Minister longed to tell Morgan about the people he had met, the places he had visited and the experiences he had undergone. Instead he said, “I simply say to you, Morgan, that Britain is prepared should the worst scenario happen.”
Morgan said, “Dad, you’re talking like a politician.”
“But I am a politician, darling,” said the Prime Minister, smiling.
“A politician without politics,” Morgan mumbled.
“Don’t be absurd, Morgan; I have a very distinct political philosophy,” said the Prime Minister.
Morgan said excitedly, “But you haven’t, Dad. I’ve been going through your speeches searching for some kind of clear socialist vision, and I couldn’t find one. You’re like one of those priests who can’t decide if God exists or not. If they’re not sure, they should, like, leave the church and become a social worker or something.”
The Prime Minister stood up and pushed the red boxes on to the floor; they fell with a loud clatter. He said, “I am the social worker to the nation, Morgan. I am all things to all people; I see all points of view; I try to make everybody happy. And when you are, y’know, slightly more mature, perhaps you’ll understand the complexities and ambiguities of modern politics.”
Morgan picked up the red boxes from the floor and re-stacked them on the desk. “Our family could do with a social worker,” he said.
The Prime Minister came out from behind his desk and said, “My family is the most important thing in my life.”
“No we’re not, Dad,” said Morgan passionately. “We come somewhere between, like, Africa and the Middle East. You sacrificed us when you won the election; we could have been normal, Dad, just, like, normal!”
“I wanted to be a hero for you, Morgan.”
“All my heroes are dead apart from one,” said Morgan sadly.
“And who’s that?” asked the Prime Minister.
But Morgan could not bring himself to tell his father that to him Malcolm Black was a heroic figure. Instead he said, “The Rock, he’s a wrestler.”
♦
Edward took the children to see their mother in hospital. Poppy pulled at the dressing on Adele’s nose. Adele had two black eyes but they were shining with happiness. Estelle told her mother about Peter and said she would like to own a pet shop when she grew up. Adele agreed with her that it would be a very pleasant way of making a living. Morgan gave a short speech about the iniquities of keeping a living creature in a cage and said that Peter should at least be allowed to fly around the room twice a day.
The family debated this point and agreed that the bird’s cage door would be left open at certain times to be determined by Estelle.
∨ Number Ten ∧
EPILOGUE
Jack stood at the side of the door to Number Ten, leaning on the black railings, watching a removal van being loaded. The traditional May Day riot had passed peacefully. There had been a little light looting of a few tartan skirts from a shop window in Regent Street, and now some of the protestors were returning to their trains and buses having had a good day out.
Jack could hear in the distance the last speech of the meeting in Trafalgar Square.
Malcolm Black came out and joined Jack while he waited for his car to arrive. Jack said, “It’s a lovely evening, Prime Minister.”
Malcolm looked towards the gates of Downing Street where a large crowd had gathered. He waved his arm; the gesture was greeted by equal amounts of cheers and boos. His car drew up and Malcolm Black got in and sat beside the driver.
Jack looked up and saw a tiny scrap of cobalt blue fluttering erratically against the pale evening sky. It was Peter. Jack started to run; he followed Peter out of the street to ironic cheers from the police and the crowd at the gates.
Peter flew along Whitehall to the Cenotaph, where he rested for a while unnoticed by the crowds below. Then, with Jack helpless to stop him, he flew in a direct line towards the bigger birds in Trafalgar Square and to almost certain death.
EOF