Something, some spark of emotion not yet tangible churned in her stomach as she analysed her situation and picked up a crossword.
But it did not fill the enormous gap left by her work, she felt restless and guilty at her enforced recuperation, so it was rather lucky that at that moment Lottie phoned.
“Hi mam, how are you?” It was her standard opening line, except this time Sue had to fill her in on the recent development.
“Good, I’m pleased to hear it, not that you have wrecked your back of course, but that you’ve finally accepted that you have to rest it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Sue replied rather glumly. “But I don’t expect I’ll have to be off the whole month, I’m sure a couple of weeks will be fine.”
“Mam,” Sue felt her daughter’s frustration simmering down the phone line, “do as you’re told. If you’d taken a week off earlier then this probably wouldn’t have happened.”
“Okay, okay,” Sue conceded, if only for the sake of peace. Since Lottie had moved into halls she seemed to think this entitled her to adopt the adult role and admonish her mother whenever she felt the need. Sue was not altogether comfortable with the switch in their relationship, but she loved the sentiment behind it. “Anyway, how has your day been?”
“Fine, had a lecture this morning that was a complete waste of time, but you know…I’m just heading home for some tea and then a few of us are going out tonight.”
Every time Lottie referred to her university accommodation as home, it cut right through Sue’s heart and she felt the need to correct her each time, even though she knew it was just a harmless habit. “You mean you’re going back to halls for tea.”
“Yes mam,” Lottie replied, a hint of a giggle in her voice, “I’m going back to halls.”
“Any plans for the weekend?” This was Sue’s way of asking her daughter if she would be popping home, whilst trying not to make her feel obliged to do so.
“Nothing much, a party on Saturday night but I’m not bothered about going. I’ll come home and see how you’re getting on.”
“You don’t need to I’m fine,” Sue replied while the voice in her head shouted, ‘yes, yes, please come home.’
“It’s okay, I wasn’t bothered about going. You can be my excuse, I’ll tell them I have to go home to look after my decrepit mother.”
“Ha-ha young lady, very funny.”
They chatted back and forth about nothing in particular, each letting the other into their world, then Sue hung up and there it was, the next yawning cavern in her life; she had the whole evening ahead with nothing to do, no planning, no assessments to mark up, no games to be made, just hours for her to fill. She walked painfully around the house for a bit, not wanting to seize up completely, put the tens machine on her back and read a magazine, then replaced the machine with a hot water bottle and made a cup of tea. A glance at the clock on the kitchen wall told her she’d managed to use up all of thirty minutes.
She scanned the evening TV schedule, surely there must be something to watch? Her gaze drifted to the live debate between Prime Minister Paul Hudson of the People’s Party and Richard Blackthorn of the Republican Party. Sue had often wondered how a party in favour of the monarchy became called the Republican Party. Was it because of their more right wing views? She had no idea, maybe that could be something she could investigate the following day; although as she didn’t really care that much, she doubted she’d get around to it.
Sue had always voted for the People’s Party believing herself to be a socialist at heart, but some of their legislation over the last sixteen years had, for her, flown against their very principles. Hudson would have to give one hell of a performance to pull his party back from anticipated defeat, and to be fair he had a certain charisma, but perhaps it belonged to more stable times. What was once said to be his unending positivity, and go getting attitude, was now being described by many in the press as a failure to understand the mood of the voters in what were forecast to be darker times ahead; although neither Party were prepared to elaborate upon what they might be.
Blackthorn was Hudson’s polar opposite in so many ways, at fifty eight he was the older of the two candidates and exuded a gravitas that was felt to be more in keeping with the times. Newspapers praised his intellect and strength of character, as they allied themselves to his campaign, detecting the buzz of success that sparked around him. Yet Sue distrusted the hooded eyes that turned into a scowl when he thought he was off camera, his face then was not one of a comforting uncle but someone you would go to if you had a problem, knowing he would make it all right, not by diplomacy but by beating the shit out of someone else. He also benefitted from the idea of change, regardless of what they had accomplished the People’s Party had been in power for a while so, much like updating your car for a newer model, many felt it was time to trade them in and give the others a chance.
The set up was simple, Peter Ford, who normally presented the BBC news, would act as moderator and pose a selection of questions submitted by the electorate. Each candidate would then have two minutes to answer, they would take it in turns to be first, and then they would have the right to respond. For many, the relatively new addition of live debates to the campaign agenda, demonstrated yet another way in which Great Britain was desperately trying to be seen as a player on the great American stage. Sue happened to think it was a good idea, maybe Ford would manage to squeeze some actual policy commitment out of the two, in what was being hailed in some areas of the media, as a campaign that contained much spin but little substance.
So at seven o’clock she settled her body in front of the TV and prepared to be disenchanted. The stage was almost comical in its neutrality, with a beige background, dark flooring and black pulpits from which the two leaders would hail the nation. Ford appeared first, he introduced the proceedings to the auditorium and the viewers who had tuned in. He went over the rules and then called upon the two party leaders to take their place. Both had gone for dark blue suits, only the colour of their ties marking out their affiliation, red for the Republicans, yellow for the Peoples Party. They both appeared relaxed and ready for the verbal fight, their PR and lifestyle coaches had done well.
The first question centred upon the NHS. There had been a lot of whispers in those newspapers, and there were not many of them, who had remained loyal to the Peoples Party about leaked documents that were supposed to show the oppositions intention to privatise that great lumbering institution.
Ford cleared his throat then posed the question, “Mr Blackthorn, what does your party intend to do to guarantee the long term feasibility of the NHS?”
“Well, can I first say good evening to the studio audience and viewers watching this debate. I wholeheartedly welcome the chance to state, for the record, that we have no intention of privatising the NHS, but nor do we intend to just carry on pouring money into an institution that is top heavy and does not meet the needs of its patients. The many instances highlighted during this campaign of elderly patients not receiving the attention they need, of people waiting more than six months for an appointment, of junior doctors working more than seventy hours weeks, are simply unacceptable. We intend to give more responsibility to health care professionals so that they can decide where the funding is best spent, in order for patients to receive the care they deserve.”
“Mr Hudson,” the presenter turned to the Prime Minister and posed the same question.
“Can I also say good evening to the studio audience and the viewers. The People’s Party has invested more money in the NHS than any previous government to date, it’s a commitment we are proud of and which we intend to continue. We have created four thousand extra training positions for our front line health care professionals. We have listened to the public and responded, not with a knee jerk reaction, but with positive, long term commitment. And may I remind Mr Blackthorn that under his government waiting lists had an eighteen month backlog; now patients are guaranteed to be seen in just six.”
Sue nodded her head, and wondered how long each politician had been rehearsing for the debate. Each response so far had ended just inside the allotted time limit and had tripped off the tongue in a casual, off-the-cuff manner that could only be achieved after hours of practice. It was now Hudson’s right to a come-back, and his face bore the look of tolerance, that of an adult explaining something to a child who had not yet cottoned on.
“I think it is Mr Hudson that needs to be reminded of the fact that his party has been in power for sixteen years and has yet to tackle the fundamental issues underlining our current health care system. By putting more power into the hands of GPs we will put an end to the so called post code lottery, because they will know, better than someone resting with their feet up in parliament, the need of people in their area. You know, I was greatly interested, and I must say distressed, by the case of Wallace Rhodes, who was left lying in his own urine on a stretcher for ten hours this week. Where were the extra staff then, Prime Minister? Because neither Mr Wallace, nor his family, saw any evidence of them.”
“I personally looked in-”
“Mr Hudson we have to move on to the-” Peter Ford raised a restraining hand, but was himself interrupted by the Prime Minister.
“The suggestion that-”
But he was cut off once more as Ford moved the debate on. The camera zeroed in on Hudson’s face, his trade mark smile replaced with a tight lipped petulance, Blackthorn merely reached for a sip of water.
“If we could now turn to education,” Ford began and so the tussle continued, via commerce, student loans, welfare reform, and ending on foreign policy. It was a hard one to call, but in the end Sue agreed with the commentators, the Republicans had the edge because they were not in the position where they had to defend their policies, they only had to promise a golden future led by the solid, reliable Richard Blackthorn.
Chapter six
Sir George
Sir George glanced at his watch, hoping the distraction would help cool his irritation, allowing for the time difference, he concluded that the live debate would now be at an end. He had no curiosity as to who had come out on top, as far as he was concerned it was immaterial. That done he raised his head, his expression totally blank as his gaze swept the table. They were seated in a large conference room, the white walls covered in motivational pictures, and the floor a mass of dark blue carpet tiles. Sir George did not like the flooring, it had been laid because of its durability, but it looked cheap and wiry. At the far end of the room were tea and coffee making facilities, a pod went into a machine which then dribbled the desired drink out at the bottom, serving the beverage up in a plastic cup. It was typical of the French, they liked to try and embrace some connection with the common man, while sitting in judgement upon their actions. At least when the group came to England, Sir George made sure the surroundings were comfortable, they usually hired a house in Surrey, nothing too ostentatious; it had only twenty rooms, a small group of staff and seventy acres of land.
Still, Sir George could put up with the Frenchman’s quirks in choosing a venue for them to meet, what irritated him was the feeling that France and Germany were colluding behind the scene in order to further their own agenda, and that simply wouldn’t do. Even if he managed to get Spain and Italy on side, their vote would still have less power than the union of two. Of course France and Germany would deny any covert alliance, but Sir George felt there was no harm in being extra vigilant.
So they sat, dwarfed by a conference table that had seating for thirty-five men, representing the future of Europe. It was felt to be completely unnecessary for the other European countries to be represented, they were of no real use to the five men, too weak economically and too unstable in their politics. Besides, where they led, the rest would follow.
Hanging behind the five men was a plasma screen, to them it looked blank, no picture jumped into life. But it did provide a link to another room, somewhere in the world, where their conversation was monitored and considered. Sir George had no knowledge of the men on the other end of the feed and assumed the others were equally at a loss, but he could not be certain because it was not an area for discussion. Their only contact with their faceless betters were the brown manila envelopes that would arrive, not with areas open for discussion, but instructions that had to be adhered to. Many times, usually when Nancy had her dreary book club meetings in the lounge, Sir George had sat in his study and wondered how far back the chain of command went. Presumably the U.S.A, Russia, Canada and possibly the Scandinavian countries had rooms with similar groups of men huddled inside, video linked to goodness knows who. Maybe one day it would be he who sat and listened without comment, but for now he had to focus his attention upon his European colleagues.
Chapter seven
Andrew
Andrew grasped Nigel’s out stretched hand and shook it enthusiastically. “That was amazing, even the commentators are calling the debate a triumph for Blackthorn.”
Nigel smiled before responding, “Where he goes, we can follow my friend.”
The team had elected to watch the debate together in Andrew’s campaign office and now an atmosphere of feverish excitement swirled around them. They could sense victory was theirs for the taking, just six days before the Country chose its next Prime Minister. Yet nobody wanted to come straight out and say the Republicans would win, in case they were the ones who jinxed a sure thing. So instead they talked loudly about percentages and exit polls, and cautioned themselves not to become complacent.
Andrew was trying and failing to project an air of calm confidence in front of the volunteers when what he really wanted to do was go out and knock on doors and ask someone, anyone, if they too had felt the blood pump through their veins as Blackthorn spoke. He knew his friend had felt it, he’d seen the sheen of victory in his gaze. If he himself was triumphant in the election it would be Nigel’s victory too. Ever since they’d chanced to meet all those years earlier, he had believed in Andrew, sacrificing any personal ambition, to push him into becoming an MP.
On leaving university it was Nigel who had persuaded him to maintain his interest in politics, and they’d joined the Republican Party together. For the fourteen years after that, he’d nurtured within Andrew the goal of one day becoming an MP. It had taken a while before Andrew felt he had the life skills to bring to the job; he wasn’t one for jumping straight into something without considering it from all angles. But he had finally been persuaded that the time was now, he would leave his job at Finchley Bank and put himself forward as a candidate to replace Sir Philip. When long term members of the party had endorsed him as their MP for Meadow East he had felt a mixture of emotions, immense pride, with a healthy dash of incredulity. The terror of responsibility followed, as he strove to reward their faith with crosses on the ballot paper. Of course, he would have to do something very wrong to lose the seat, and that was his secret fear; he would have preferred to be fighting for influence in a strong People’s Party area, then if he failed to live up to expectations members would pat him on the back and say he gave it a good try but realistically there was nothing he could do. Instead, if the unthinkable happened and he did not secure Meadow East, it would surely be the end of any political aspirations.
Buoyed up by the excitement of the live debate, some of Andrew’s campaign volunteers had decided to carry on their celebrations at the pub. Nigel had politely declined expressing a desire for an early night, leaving Andrew unsure what to do; he felt he should accept, proving his every man status, but worried the celebration could turn into an excuse to drink too much and he was not comfortable with that sort of ethos. So instead he played the role of the martyr, pointing out that someone needed to tidy up, wash out the coffee cups and throw away the remains of pizza. So they left, and where there had been jubilant noise a second earlier, silence now reigned.
He was just heading into the small kitchen area at the back of the main office when he heard someone opening the outside door.
“Molly.” His face instantly reddened. “Did you forget something?”
“No, I just thought you might need a hand.” She came over and took some of the cups that were precariously hanging from his fingers, her skin brushing his.
“That’s kind of you but I don’t mind if you want to head out with the others, it’s no problem really.” Even as he blabbed on a voice was shouting in his head, shut up for god’s sake, you’ve finally got her alone.’
“To be honest, sitting drinking is not really my thing, I’m more of a quiet meal type of girl,” she replied.
“Oh, I see.” Or did he? Was that a hint that she would be receptive to him asking her out, or was she merely making a statement of fact? Andrew truly believed to be single at his age was much worse than when you were young. Then you didn’t care, you would ask a girl out and shrug with indifference if she refused. But now, now it all seemed to have so much more weight. He decided this evening was one for taking risks, seizing the day.
“That’s more my sort of thing too, not that I disapprove of going out to celebrate, it’s just that going out for food is more…intimate…not that I’m suggesting-”
“Andrew,” Molly interrupted, “would you like to grab something to eat, sometime?”
Andrew took a deep breath and concentrated in calming down before he replied, “That would be lovely. Once the elections over, it would be nice to go out.”
“Good.” Molly beamed in response.
Andrew wondered how two thirty something’s could be reduced to the emotional sophistication of teenagers in the space of a few minutes; silly really, it’s not as if both of them wouldn’t arrive at the restaurant with a wealth of baggage attached to their hearts. As he ran some hot water into the sink, ready to attack the dishes, he realised that although Molly had volunteered several months ago, he knew nothing about her.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 2