A slight cough announced the appearance of a butler at his side.
“Mr Purser is here to see you Sir George.”
“Thank you, please show him in.”
“Yes sir, thank you.”
Although Sir George knew the moment Nigel arrived, he liked to keep him waiting just a few seconds before he looked up and invited him to sit. As if his presence was a complete surprise to him.
“Ah, Nigel, take a seat. Would you like a drink?”
“I’ll have a whisky, thank you.”
“Excellent.” Sir George motioned for the drink to be brought. There were really only three acceptable drinks in the club, whisky, brandy and port. There were others available, of course, but they weren’t seen as fitting in with the masculine image of the surroundings.
“How’s our boy doing?” Sir George asked, reclining his head back on the seat. A favoured position of his, he felt it lent an air of scrutiny to his gaze.
“Andrew is…” Nigel searched for the correct word. “…steady, reliable and takes advice easily.”
“Only our advice I hope.”
Nigel smiled. “Of course, a rapid rise amongst the ranks can leave some unsure of their position. Andrew has a clear vision, one I have created for him.”
“Good,” Sir George nodded as he spoke. “That’s very good. And you Nigel, are you up to the momentous task ahead of you?”
“Always,” Nigel replied, without hesitation. A response that only served to remind Sir George why he disliked him; he found his arrogant self-belief somewhat vulgar. But of course, if he hadn’t that quality, he wouldn’t have been chosen for the role ahead. Nigel may have spent the last fifteen or so years training Andrew, but his own preparation had started long before that.
“Good.” Sir George inclined his head toward one of the private rooms, it was always best to err on the side of caution, even when at the club. As he stood and lead the way he couldn’t help a bubble of excitement, almost sexual in its nature, rising in his stomach because at that moment he still held the future in his head. The general about to brief the foot soldier, and what a briefing it would be.
Chapter fifteen
Nigel left Dean Street almost four hours later, he was exhausted, yet felt like running, shouting in the road because the task he’d been entrusted with was surely not one easily given. It must mean that Andrew was destined for the top, because that was where he was heading, Nigel didn’t doubt it now. And if Andrew’s star was ascending, his must be shooting for the moon. Of course he knew there must be others like himself, other figures who were now walking exhilarated into the night, who also felt the responsibility of power; but he would push all others aside to ensure Andrew’s triumph.
Nigel had entered the political arena quietly, through the back door, a shadow hardly glimpsed on the main stage. He’d served his time as a speech writer and political secretary, helping Andrew gain his seat, before becoming Financial Secretary to the Treasury. Amazingly, just months before Andrew had then become Chief Secretary to the Treasury. Andrew would often regale the party faithful with tales of their long friendship and the unlikely coincidence that they’d ended up working together once more. Nigel played upon Andrew’s embarrassment, that, on the surface at least, his career had stayed one step ahead of his friends, since his decision to enter politics. It gave Nigel easy access to his friend’s ear. Plus Andrew revealed more to Nigel than was strictly acceptable, he threw him titbits from his table, in an effort to maintain some sort of political equality that was no longer there. What Andrew didn’t know was that in his façade as a Republican politician, he would never really reach the heights of power enjoyed by Nigel, even now.
No, Nigel’s was a calling beyond mere politics. He owed his position to the free masons and Knights Templar of old; although any religious connotations had been cast aside long ago. The church had become too complacent in power, allowing itself to become embroiled in scandal and charges of financial irregularity. Nigel doubted that any present religious figure, of any faith, had even the remotest inkling of the influence it had once held. Religion and politics do not mix, was not only a saying but a historical truth.
It was ironic that the public face of the Freemasons had become a group that was almost ridiculed by society. Whole comedy sketches were based upon the club with the funny handshakes. But that was merely a smoke screen, an offshoot that had as much in common with Nigel and Sir George that a cheap sparkling white had with champagne.
Nigel arrived back at his flat thirty minutes after the meeting with Sir George. He finally allowed himself to loosen his tie, after hanging his jacket up in the wardrobe. His was an ordered and tidy man by nature, which was just as well, given the size of his bedsit. For the umpteenth time he wondered whether he should move into something bigger, make the push now before the maelstrom hit. Not because he needed more space, but because there would come a point when his address would play as much a role in his influence as Sir George did. But no, he mused, he could afford to wait a few years yet. Why purchase a little more room when he would ultimately be able to afford a lot.
The following day he was spending a rare Saturday with his family. It was an inconvenient necessity that his mother insisted upon at far too regular an interval as far as he was concerned. There was nothing wrong with just seeing family at Christmas. Plus it ate into his work time as, unless he had a specific reason not to, he usually spent his days off engrossed in work, either in the offices he shared at the Treasury department, or at home. He didn’t deprive himself completely, he did allow for an extra fifteen minutes in bed, before going for his customary run, and collecting the morning broadsheets to peruse back at the flat. That was the real luxury, drinking freshly brewed tea with white toast and marmalade, while reading the papers; actually feeling the paper beneath his hands. The words contained within them somehow becoming more powerful because of the long tradition of exposes and campaigns they followed. On a work day he had to settle for an electronic version, which, although convenient, was not the same.
*****
It didn’t take long to get to Nigel’s parent’s house. Sir James Purser had wanted a bolt-hole within a reasonable drive to the city, in case his presence was urgently required in the House of Lords. Yet his main residence was as far removed from the bustle of urban living, and his previous home, as to be a constant source of bewilderment to his son. It seemed that in his later years Sir James had started to see himself as something of a gentleman farmer, much to the disgust and embarrassment of his wife, Emily Purser. Even more astonishingly he’d turned out to be rather good at it. He collected rare breeds of cattle and pigs, producing his own cheese and exclusive cuts of meat. And that was as far as Nigel had wished to know, his father insisted upon taking him for a walk around the farm whenever he visited. Nigel would nod his head and feign enthusiasm as his father talked about his animals with an affection that had never been shown to his children. But, he supposed, if nothing else it had given father and son something to talk about. The only other subject they had in common, that of politics, turned into a strange game of guess what I know and you don’t; each reluctant to talk in specifics in case they revealed too much. After all, neither knew how much the other had been briefed, if at all; so discussions in that area tended to be of a more general type, his father’s concern that Prime Minister Blackthorn was not tough enough on immigration, and so forth. His sister, Ruby, was never invited on the walks because, well, she was woman; that alone made her exclusion a given. The fact that she was on the verge of divorcing for a second time, without any sign of giving James and Emily a grandchild, meant as far as her father was concerned, she was damn lucky to be allowed in the house.
In some ways Nigel felt a degree of sympathy for his sibling, she was the older child, but any advantages of her birth right had been extinguished by the fact of her gender. Even in today’s environment of women clergy and cabinet ministers, as far as Sir James was concerned any inheritance either politica
l or actual, would by-pass his daughter and go straight to his son. If Ruby felt bitter about such an arrangement she had never mentioned it to Nigel, in fact, if anything she seemed to revel in her freedom from responsibility. At forty years of age, she still strove to squeeze ever last drop of fun from life. She laughed like a drain, refused to take anything too seriously, positively poked fun at the conventions of the society she found herself in, and had a phenomenal intellect. Nigel believed that to be the cause of her failed marriages, both husbands had been attracted to her flippant air and exuberant nature, and then found themselves married to someone whose intelligence could trump theirs three fold. Eventually their fragile egos could take no more and the marriages imploded, Ruby emerging from the wreck with a shrug of disdain.
Not that Nigel had ever talked to Ruby about her personal life, theirs was not a relationship of confidences. They only saw each other at their parent’s house, and that suited both of them just fine. The less they saw of each other, the more they liked one another.
As Nigel drove up the drive to the farm, he saw his mother and father walk out of the front door to greet him. This was something they had always done, no matter the weather, and today it was unpleasantly cold. He also noted, with an inward groan that his father had on his wellingtons, a sure sign of what lay ahead.
Sir James Purser was a handsome man, his shock of white hair only increasing his air of gravitas, his body lean and healthy from the hours spent outside with his beloved animals. His wife had also glided elegantly into old age, she stood, arms clasped in front of her, her posture correct, her only concession being a rounder midriff, due to the consumption of too many sweet treats. In fact she enjoyed baking, and was very accomplished, much to the dismay of their housekeeper who had to clean up after her. That was his mother’s way of coping with the rural idyll she found herself imprisoned within, she’d assumed the role of Lady of the Manor, and provided a steady supply of baked goods to any organisation in the immediate area who would take them off her hands.
His father had talked of opening a farm/coffee shop. His mother had been horrified at the thought of strangers stomping around her property. Only the prospect of baking lots of homemade goodies had softened her attitude, but his father still had a long way to go before his dream would become a reality.
As Nigel emerged from the car, his father stretched out his arm for the customary handshake.
“Nigel, good to see you, how was the drive?”
His father always asked the same question every time he visited. And Nigel always gave the same response. “Traffic was heavy coming out of the city, but once I hit the green fields, it was fine.”
Then he turned to his mother, the handshake replaced with a slight buzz of lips to the cheek.
“Hello darling, how are you? Not working too hard I hope?” she asked.
“I’m fine mother, and work is fine. Are you both well?”
“Your father is complaining of his arthritis, but apart from that, yes, we’re quite well, thank you.”
It was the same greeting, repeated as if new, every time; the only thing that changed was which ailment his father complained of. Not that he did anything about his various symptoms because he regarded all doctors as little more than quacks, and those who practiced in Harley Street, he ranked amongst the worst.
“Anyway, got some new pigs yesterday; go and get your boots on and we’ll take a look,” his father said.
It was pointless arguing, Nigel had given up trying to think of a reasonable excuse as to why he shouldn’t go, because there didn’t appear to be one. So he walked around to the boot room, situated off the back entrance to the house, and then followed his father, leaving his mother to carry on in the kitchen.
“Have you been up to the City much lately?” Nigel enquired, in an attempt to keep the conversation away from livestock for as long as possible.
His father gave him a sideways glance before replying, “And why do you ask me that?”
Nigel’s spine prickled in response, he had stumbled upon a sensitive area, it was better to retreat than carry on. “No particular reason, I was merely asking because it’s a while since we met for lunch.”
“Ah, yes, quite right, I’ve popped in a few times, nothing important really.”
An awkward silence followed them all the way to one of the out houses.
“There we go, what do you think of them?”
Nigel looked in a pen containing five very ordinary pigs. “They seem…well.”
“They are more than well, they’re British Lop pigs, unassuming in colour and easily pleased. If only women were the same, aye.”
His father chuckled at his own joke as he entered the pen, Nigel declined to follow.
“The sows make excellent mothers, so we’ll soon build the herd up.”
“How will they take to mixing with the others?” Nigel asked, pleased he’d thought of a pig related query.
“No problem, they love to be outdoors, in amongst the woodland. Plus they’re generally quite docile and easy to manage. They’ll fit in well with the Tamworth and Saddleback pigs.”
“Excellent, and the meat?”
“Delicious, they produce a marvellous lean meat. We’ve several clients lined up already.”
Nigel only nodded this time. He conversed with politicians on everything from public sector pay structure to the cheapest supplier of staples, but he couldn’t dredge up any more interest on the subject of bacon. So, he turned and surveyed all around him, the outhouses, woodland and fields, but still could not see what attracted his father to it. He knew his father was waiting for the eureka moment, when Nigel would suddenly get it and fall in love with the lifestyle, and promise to carry on after him. But in this, as in many other things, Nigel knew his father was destined to be disappointed.
“One day,” he said, as if he’d heard his son’s very thoughts, “you may need a place like this.” Then he emerged from the pen, slapped him on the back and headed off toward a field of cows. No, not just cows, Nigel corrected his thoughts, but Lincoln Reds. He really must do some research on them, just to surprise his father with a well-informed query. He could almost see the expression of delight on his face, as if he was handing over a grandson and heir.
*****
Once inside the farmhouse you were transported to a different era, where Georgian gentility reigned and pigs were not a subject for the dinner table. The room in which they sat had been beautifully restored and furnished in a manor sympathetic to its origin. As far as Emily was concerned, once inside, she did not wish to be reminded of what was outside its walls. Nigel could tell his father was desperate to make a comment upon the quality of the beef they were eating, but the tight lipped smile of his wife was enough to keep him quiet. Emily thought, to be reminded that the meat they were tucking into had recently roamed around their land, to be too vulgar a topic. Instead, she was quizzing Ruby about her personal life.
“Mother, I don’t need a man to make me feel whole, besides my divorce hasn’t even been finalised yet,” Ruby lamented once more.
“I know dear, you modern girls, you want to have it all. But I don’t wish to see you alone in your old age.”
“Good god, I’m hardly past it yet. Besides, at the moment I prefer cats to men. Maybe I’ll become the old spinster woman who lives with forty cats and terrifies all the local children.”
“I don’t know how you can joke about something so important,” her mother replied, having turned quite pale at the thought. Her father merely glowered into his food.
“Besides,” Ruby continued, “why does Nigel get excused from the inquisition, you don’t hound him about his private life.” His sister gave Nigel a smug look as she spoke.
“Because he’s got more bloody sense than to fall for time wasters like the last two you married,” his father roared.
“James, calm down please,” Emily admonished. “Besides I’m sure Nigel is just fine.”
“Thank you mother, and I am indeed
fine.”
Ruby rolled her eyes heavenwards as Nigel resisted the sudden and strange urge to stick his tongue out at her.
“Of course he’s fine, because he’s got a blasted job to see to,” Sir James spoke remembering mid phrase to adjust the volume of his retort.
“And my job is less important because I’m a woman, is that right?” Ruby asked her father. It was an oft repeated subject, that was a continued sore point between father and daughter, and Nigel could see no end in sight.
“James,” his wife warned, but it was too late because Sir James had been wound up and had to continue on course.
“No, it’s because Nigel has a proper job, whereas you spend your time undermining the justice system of this country and ensuing terrorists are left free to maim and kill,” he bellowed.
“I am a human rights lawyer. I ensure justice is done, and that it is fair and impartial. I would think that you would applaud such work.”
“Oh dear, that’s enough, both of you. Maybe you could pop to the kitchen Ruby and see if cook will come and clear the table. I’ve made a beautiful apple tart for pudding.”
*****
“Why do you do it?” Nigel asked his sister, they were alone in the lounge, their mother having gone to sort out a kitchen related emergency, and their father having stomped off to visit his herd; but not before he’d stated that he got more sense out of his animals than he did his own daughter.
“Why not? It would make no difference what my job was anyway because I am immediately damned by my gender, and I refuse to play the role of the little woman just to keep the peace.”
“Nobody is saying you have to do that, but nor do you have to be so confrontational. You know you do it on purpose, just to wind father up.” Nigel responded.
“Oh, I know,” Ruby admitted, “but at the moment it seems like the only fun I have.”
Nigel felt a wave of unease flow across his stomach, at the thought that his sister could be about to open up to him. Yet he could hardly ignore her comment, so he reluctantly pressed on.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 6