An Ordinary Working Man

by Gillian Ferry

  “What is it you do Molly? When you’re not here I mean.”

  “I’m an accountant. I work for Brewster and Bennet.”

  “Really, I had no idea. Maybe you should be in charge of the coffee fund.” He tried a stab at humour, it wasn’t his most witty remark but he was relieved to hear a tiny giggle in response. He liked the sound of it, huge guffaws were for middle aged men who had ceased to find life amusing, but were desperately trying to convince themselves that wasn’t so. A snort of laughter was always a difficult one to read, did it mean they found the comment humorous or was it the sound of derision one could hear.

  “So, how long have you worked there?”

  “Eight years, it was my first job out of University, and they’ve been a good firm to work for.”

  “That’s great, I worked at Finchleys before all this,” he gestured around him with his hand as he spoke.

  “I know,” Molly replied.

  “You do.” Andrew’s ego inflated at the thought she had been making inquiries about him, until he remembered it was on his campaign pamphlets.

  “Yes, well, quite.” He was going to ask about her background, where she was from, did she have and any siblings, what were her parents like? But decided against it, just in case the conversation slowed when they went on their date; it was always good to have topics in reserve. So instead they chatted about the campaign, what was still left to be done and how much had been achieved to date. It was safe, but nice Andrew thought, in fact it was really nice.

  Chapter eight

  Andrew bent down to fasten his trainers, warmed up with a few stretches and headed out for a run, it was six-thirty and there was plenty to be done. His route took him along the river and through the park, the only bad part was the immediate area around his flat. He’d lived in part of the converted warehouse for the past seven years and he hated it. At the time he, like many others, had been seduced by the sales campaign, it had pandered to the image he had of himself. The firm didn’t just sell a property, they sold a lifestyle; young, energetic, ambitious people only need apply. The bare floors, exposed brickwork and open plan living, were for those who not only worked hard, they played hard too. But now Andrew wished for thick carpet beneath his feet, and the warmth of emulsion. He was uncomfortable in his own home, as if he had disappointed the very cement that held it together.

  The area around the warehouse was to be converted into more luxury flats, bars, the essential coffee shop; but seven years later and it remained empty and disused. They had been sold a dream which had yet to appear. Instead of a cappuccino lifestyle, the immediate buildings and narrow alleyways were full of prostitutes, drug dealers and the homeless. Every time he left or returned to the flat he had to get past a barrage of unsavoury greetings. The homeless were the worst. The other groups recognised a lost cause when they saw one and no longer called out to him, but the homeless still kept up their cries for money, just a little bit of course so that they could buy some food. To begin with he had complied; embarrassed to have a roof over his head within a stone’s throw of their desperation, but Nigel had shook his head in dismay when he told him, claiming that they only used the money for alcohol, thus perpetuating their life of misery. Since then Andrew had offered to buy food, or a warm drink, sometimes they seemed grateful other times they swore at him and ambled off. So now he just lowered his head and ran, or walked past, as quickly as he could.

  He and the other residents of the warehouse had complained to the housing company several times, but they always got the same response, the development of the area around their flats had not been shelved, they were just waiting for the right time. So Andrew was stuck, in a property he hated, in an area he feared, unable to sell up and move without losing money on the deal. Assuming of course he could find anyone to take the property off his hands in the first place.

  Still, he did enjoy the run. The river and park were like a revelation, an oasis of leafy green that continued to delight after the horror of depravation he had to endure to get there. There weren’t many people around that early in the morning, just others like himself, plus the occasional dog walker. But in the afternoons it came to life, no matter the season, people, families, and children could all be seen. Andrew mused that the area could really do with more open spaces, more playing parks, kids needed the space to grow and experience the adventures of his youth, but in a safe environment of course. Andrew himself had grown up in a normal family, his parents had managed to stay married and provide his sister Josie and himself a loving, supportive home. They were neither rich nor poor; they lived in a three up two down semi, and had fish for tea every Friday. They hadn’t a park beside them but it hadn’t mattered because they lived at the end of a cul-de-sac and could play in the street. There had been enough room for him and his friends to ride round on their bikes, play curbie and kick a ball, while his sister and her friends seemed to spend the years from seven till eleven skipping. His parents still lived there, his mother, Joyce Proust, had only just retired from a lifetime of work as a receptionist in the local doctors surgery, while his father, Anthony Proust, still worked with the same engineering firm he had joined as an apprentice at the age of sixteen. At sixty seven he was past the age of retirement but continued to enjoy the job, and it kept him out from under Andrew’s mother’s feet.

  What had happened, Andrew wondered, in those few short years, from his childhood until now to cause society to break down so completely? He stood and stretched out his muscles, safely ensconced in the foyer of his building and shook his head as another pile of rags shuffled round outside and revealed itself to be human.

  *****

  “Morning,” Nigel called as soon as Andrew entered the office. “I’ve copied the day’s itinerary to give out as soon as everyone gets in.”

  “Excellent, thanks Nigel,” Andrew replied. It was still only half eight, so the others wouldn’t be in until nine, and then you were often only talking about an extra two bodies. After all, the volunteers had jobs to go to, so the number of extra hands on duty depended upon whose day off it might be. As today was Saturday quite a few would turn in, Molly should be amongst them.

  Andrew grinned at his friend as he placed sheets of paper down on the desk. “You do know that I am convinced you sleep here, don’t you?”

  “I do,” Nigel said, the papers still the focus of his attention. “Upside down, hanging from the ceiling above the photocopier.”

  “Ah ha, everything finally makes sense.” Andrew ducked as a biro flew in his direction. “I’ll put the kettle on, you’re obviously ready for a caffeine shot.”

  By ten past nine the morning greetings had been made, quietly, in deference to those with a slightly sore head, which confirmed Andrew’s belief that he had made the correct decision in not going to the pub the previous evening. Now they were seated and Nigel had the floor. Andrew knew that quite a number of the volunteers were nervous of his friend, he could understand why, he didn’t waste time in trying to put others at ease, or in pretending an interest in their lives when he hadn’t one. Yet Andrew would always be grateful for his friendship, even if he didn’t quite understand it at times. He was passionate about his political beliefs, ambitious and strong willed, yet was generous enough to allow another to take the credit and that was when the thought suddenly struck Andrew, all these people were gathered around this table on a Saturday morning, instead of having a lie in with a loved one or out with their kids, because of him. Yes, obviously, they were supporters of the Republican Party but he was essentially the face of that ethos, and the one who could either win for them or fail. The revelation made him start to feel rather nauseous as a cold sweat began to coat his forehead and the palms of his hands.

  “Excuse me, sorry to interrupt Nigel, I just have to…err…” He indicated a space over his shoulder, then stumbled over to the water cooler and stood there to listen to the remainder of the morning round-up. By the time Nigel had finished, he felt sufficiently calm to face the day, whi
ch was just as well because this was the last Saturday before the big one, Thursday 1st May, when the country would finally decide, after all the hype and mudslinging, who they felt was in the best position to take the country foreword. And it had, Andrew felt, been a particularly dirty campaign, numerous MPs from both camps had been exposed as fiddling their parliamentary expenses, not that anyone had been surprised by the allegations. The general response was to condemn those politicians who were caught, oblige them to leave their posts, and hope to god you weren’t next. Andrew believed they had gotten what they deserved, he was still naive enough to be of the opinion that if you were given the responsibility of government you should do so in the knowledge that you could look yourself in the mirror and see a man of impeccable moral standing. That was the message he wished to convey during the last few days of campaigning, that he was a man who could be trusted, that he wished to serve the populace and was worthy of their support.

  Meadow East was in many ways a monotonously boring constituency, there were no schools or shops to break up the sprawl of suburban housing and the odd outlying village, nor was there any real scale of social mix. The inhabitants tended to be families where both parents worked and children were cared for by an army of child minders or grandparents. The only indicator that you were passing from one area to another was the differing housing styles employed by assorted builders, although they all seemed to adhere to the open plan frontage with room for two, or at a push three cars. They parked the campaign mini bus in the middle of Crotchdale Road, and like an army of worker ants they swarmed out to reel in the voters.

  Andrew wasn’t nervous, he enjoyed campaigning and listening to people’s concerns, and on the whole they seemed to react positively to him. He knew he had one of those faces that it was hard to take offense at and that people seemed to trust him, as far as they were prepared to trust any politician that is. So he stepped lightly from the bus as Nigel rallied the troops and allocated streets, Andrew was hoping he could pair up with Molly, but at the same time recognised that suggesting it was a bit like offering your pudding to a favoured girl in primary school. So he straightened his tie and headed off in the direction indicated by Nigel, he would work one side of the street while his friend concentrated on the other. He hadn’t needed to do any preparation, he had his answers off by heart to almost any topic that could be raised, and if he was stumped a general rule applied, blame the present government and promise that if elected the Republicans would do a better job.

  The first few houses went along predictable lines; how could it be fair that anyone entering the country could be given a home and benefits, while they themselves worked hard to provide for their families? Answer, it wasn’t fair, but as we were now part of Europe most of these people had an entitlement to live in the UK. However the present government hadn’t exercised any control over the numbers of people entering the country or the dependents they brought with them. The Republicans would put a cap on the number of people eligible to come into Britain, and they would only be allowed to do so if their particular skill was in short supply amongst the indigenous work force.

  Question; how would they be able to afford to send their children to University if the fees were to be raised yet again?

  Answer, the previous government had not invested enough in the future of our young people therefore universities were struggling to provide a top notch education on a shoe string budget. If we were to continue to challenge on a world stage we had to invest in the future of our children.

  Andrew had made it all along one street, shaking hands, smiling, politely refusing invites for a cup of tea before he met the indulgent idealist; the voter who believed himself to be a socialist at heart, while enjoying the trappings of a successful life. The door was answered by a small boy around the age of three. Andrew was always unnerved when this happened because he’d never yet worked out the correct response on his behalf, talking to the child always guaranteed the belated arrival of a suspicious parent who would then tuck their offspring behind their legs for safety. But, diving straight in with a, ‘is mummy or daddy home,’ was usually met with silent consideration followed by the beginnings of a very long wail. Fortunately Andrew had time for neither as the door opening was followed by a, ‘Michael you have been told not to answer the door,’ and then a, ‘Paul you’ve forgotten to lock the door again,’ before a harassed mother appeared.

  “Good morning. My name is Andrew Proust and I’m-”

  “Yes, I know who you are,” the woman interrupted, “and I’m not interested thank you.” She’d pulled the door onto herself as she spoke, leaving only a space for her head, and was about to close it completely when it was pulled open by someone Andrew assumed to be Paul. His wife/partner raised her eyes heavenward and gave Andrew a you’ve asked for it look

  Paul launched straight into his attack, “You lot, you’ve got a nerve after what you did to this country the last time you were in power. Not all of us have got short memories and are won over by spin and phony rhetoric. You tell me one thing you’ll do for the likes of us, go on, I challenge you to tell me anything that will have a real, direct influence on our lives.”

  “Well,” Andrew pulled at his tie as he spoke, “we would certainly be encouraging a discussion on the reintroduction of the fortnightly bin collection.”

  Chapter nine

  Nigel

  Thursday 1st May

  Nigel looked over at the Peoples Party candidate for Meadow East, his face wore the imprint of stoic resignation, it really was all over bar the counting. Both politicians and their, ‘entourage,’ had been forced into co-habiting the same space, in this case the local community hall, while an army of volunteers raced to be the first to declare. As an achievement Nigel felt it to be dubious, he watched scenes of volunteers strewn in long lines, passing boxes from one to the next until it reached a hunched worker whose fingers flew over the ballot papers, and wished them to slow down. He’d prefer the count to be correct rather than quick. Still, it didn’t much matter in Meadow East, as Andrew should win by thousands, so he supposed if nothing else it gave a boring job a slither of excitement. A philosophy at the core of political achievement; make people think their role important and they would work hard for the common good, even if they had no real control over what that might be.

  He smoothed his jacket down once more and glanced over at the opposition, where was his equal he wondered? Or was the Peoples Party candidate such a long shot that none existed. Surely that must be right, why would anyone waste their time, indeed their lives, for the glory of a no hoper? Still it must happen; he had been recruited so young, long before he’d been assigned to Andrew. He’d never thought to question Sir George or the offer he’d laid before him. He could still see his father’s face, pride shining from his eyes, even if his delight did not make it to his lips. But then his father would have thought such a visual display of joy as vulgar. Besides, Sir George’s proposition was to be accepted as Nigel’s birth right; refusal was not an option because the moment you were made aware of that elite group of men, you were one of them. Nigel had wanted to ask his father, who he’d always thought of as incredibly dull, what his role was within the organisation. But, even as a fourteen year old public school boy, he’d understood immediately one of the basic rules of belonging, you were a cog in a machine, what that machine was you were never told and did not ask. Only one thing was certain, with acceptance came power.

  He smiled as Andrew glanced in his direction, got to give the required response. Not that he was particularly repulsive in any way, he was affable enough, but he doubted they would have become friends in the natural way of things. In fact he wasn’t entirely sure, if asked, that he would categorise him as a friend now, he was a project, an assignment, a means to fulfil his political ambitions. As such Nigel tended to view himself in two ways, the persona he was when with Andrew and the real him when he wasn’t. At times it was a strain, he had to project an air of easy going friendliness that was at
odds with his personality. He not only had to speak and mix with people who were not his natural allies, but he had to look as if he enjoyed it. This other Nigel took up so much of his time that occasionally the lines between the act and the real person were blurred. It was only when alone, in his bedsit, that he could truly relax. But even then it was merely a space that served a purpose, a modest, plain room, sparsely furnished with none of the usual clutter people tended to accumulate. What was the point? It couldn’t reflect the real person, even his home had to stay in character. But at least he could relax with a brandy and a good book, in peaceful reflection when there alone.

  He saw Molly go over to chat to Andrew, full of smiles and encouragement. They had become closer as the campaign went on and everyone knew that they were planning on going out for dinner once the election was over. Nigel had thought long and hard about this development, analysed its implication for the future if it did turn into something serious. In the end he had decided it was a good thing, a single MP tended to invite unwelcome questions about his sexuality. Not that Nigel had a problem with homosexuality, he had realised early on that was where his desires lay, but in politics, white, middle class, heterosexual male was where the votes lay. He had never had anyone in his bed since University and had decided that part of his life was over. He suspected that the powers that be above him probably leaned quite heavily toward the ultra-conservative and he was prepared to sacrifice that element of his private life in order to gain the power and influence he wanted. Because in Andrew he had someone that could take him to the very top, he acknowledged the ripple of excitement that coursed through his body at the thought of what it would mean for him, to be the voice behind Britain’s future Prime Minister.

  Andrew turned to seek him out once more, Nigel smiled and wandered over to bathe in the anticipation of victory.