“No,” the Frenchman stated.
“No,” the German agreed.
Sir George nodded to each as he reported back, “No,” he concurred.
“Maybe,” that from the Spaniard, as all heads turned to him.
“What do you mean, maybe?” Sir George barked, “I’m sorry but there is no upside to having any religious organisation involved.”
“The Catholic Church has a vast wealth at its disposal, not to mention worldwide influence,” the Italian pressed his point.
“We have no need of that wealth,” the Frenchman said.
“I agree,” the German stated, before continuing, “We already have more assets than we will ever need to call upon, and any influence by the Church is going to contravene our goal i.e. civil disorder.”
“But still-” the Italian spread his hands upon the desk, and leaned his body forward.
“Sorry,” Sir George interrupted what looked like the start of a long and wasteful fight back. “Our position is clear, and we have an, almost, unanimous decision.” he glared at the Spaniard. “There is no benefit to our cause in having the Papacy involved, if we want to sell, and we do, condoms and cigarettes to Third World countries, we want no bleeding heart conscience telling us to do otherwise. Now, I would like to ask who first floated this idea, the Papacy or yourselves, because if it was the church we have a serious problem on our hands.”
“The Papacy know nothing of our suggestion, or our groups dictation of world affairs, as far as they are concerned the alliances of old have long since been dissolved.” The very air seemed to have been drawn out of the Italian as he spoke, his body shrinking with defeat. Surely he must have known that, as a suggestion, it was never going to be agreed upon. It had obviously been a desperate play for more power by a country which had seen its influence deteriorated to that of a courted coalition partner in sticky negotiations.
“Good,” Sir George nodded as he spoke, “I suggest we break now till after lunch, if that is agreeable to you?”
“Yes, of course, we’ll meet back at one thirty,” the Italian stated. The other four rose and headed out the door, leaving the Italian seated at the table, staring at his hands.
Chapter thirty-nine
Sir George was enjoying a rare afternoon in the house; Nancy was doing…something that escaped him, although he knew it involved baked goods as the house had been filled with the most delicious aroma for several days. Unfortunately, whenever he attempted to open one of the cake tins he’d been rather severely admonished, he’d even had his hand slapped away on one occasion. He swore, the longer one lived with a woman the less you knew them, if he’d failed to comment upon Nancy’s endeavours she would have been most put out, and when he tried to afford her the ultimate compliment by eating the blasted cakes, she’d replied with what could only be described as intense irritation. Then, as she’d packed her goods ready for delivery, she’d presented him with a ginger cake, his favourite. Unfortunately his attempt at humour by asking if he was actually allowed to eat that one or just admire it from afar, had not been well received.
Still, her ginger cake was wonderful, and what better way to enjoy, what was his third slice, but with a pot of tea, sitting in his favourite chair, in the lounge. He’d decided to watch Prime Ministers question time, which would today be dominated by the Chancellor’s announcement on welfare reform. He watched, not out of any curiosity as to the content, he knew that already, but more to assess Andrew’s performance. The time to gently increase his prominence within the party had begun, and today’s speech would be a key part in that scheme; with the possibility of a general election within the year, he needed to be bedded into his new role in plenty of time.
It was a packed House, which was to be expected. Sir George refilled his china tea cup, moistened his finger so he could scoop up the remainder of the ginger crumbs from his plate, and sat back to observe. Blackthorn stood to give his opening remarks, Andrew remained seated to his right. He looked composed, determined in fact, and the papers he held remained still; it was a good start. He nodded throughout the PM’s introduction, which reminded everyone not only of the need to cut the huge deficit, left to the Republicans by the People’s Party, but also the fact that the Opposition had allowed the Welfare bill to grow to an unsustainable amount, without any real means of checking the recipients worth. He then finished by emphasising the need for all members of society to play their part in rebuilding the economy. As a statement of intent it was, regrettably for their plans, a good performance by Blackthorn. Sir George wasn’t worried by that however, Blackthorn’s public career would soon be over, it was inevitable, simple as that. Sir George knew him to be a decent man, but he’d served his purpose, and as such he would soon be brushed aside for a younger, more malleable candidate.
Blackthorn finished and took his seat, just as Andrew stood up from his own. His composure was good, he took his time in placing his papers on the lectern, and he exuded a gravitas that had not been there even a few months before. He looked up, and his gaze travelled over the Opposition, before resting once more upon his bill.
“The People’s Party not only left our country struggling with a huge financial deficit, but they presided over the demise of the welfare state, something they had claimed as a triumph. Yet there is no victory in a system that has been allowed to run unchecked, that has created a section of society which choses to live off the hard work of the ordinary working man…”
It was a good start, his delivery was calm but persuasive, his voice even and determined. Yes, so far so good. Sir George picked the knife up from beside the ginger cake, knew that Nancy would trundle on about his cholesterol and blood pressure because of the amount he’d eaten already, and so put the knife back down and sipped his tea.
“…how can we claim a system to be fair, if we’re paying housing benefit in excess of a thousand pounds a month when the normal man in the street is struggling to pay his mortgage? What message is that to give to our young people who may wish to live in a four or five bedroom house, but recognise to do so would be reckless and instead do the right thing and live within their means? If you are unemployed or have a low income, there is no justification to living in the most expensive parts of the city, which are out of bounds for many working families. Therefore we will be introducing, as of April, a housing benefit cap of five hundred pounds. It is unsustainable…”
Sir George smiled as the Speaker had to call for order again and again, the Opposition were vocal and persistent. But Andrew’s face was set, his jawline hard, it said, ‘I’M PREPARED TO MAKE THE HARD DECISSIONS.’
Sir George nodded as he deliberated, then he picked up the knife; if he only cut a tiny slither of cake, then, really, he’d hardly eaten any more. A hand around the pot ascertained that it needed refreshing.
When he returned to the lounge Andrew was, once more, waiting for quiet, he wouldn’t be rushed, good for him.
“…it is not a decision that has been taken lightly. However we believe means testing child benefit to be a fair and necessary step, and in doing so we can protect the entitlement for those families to whom it makes a very real difference…”
Sir George checked the pot, perfectly mashed. Perhaps he should put the ginger cake in the kitchen, that way he wouldn’t be tempted. He pulled a little off the side with his finger and thumb; it was barely a crumb really. He carried it into the kitchen and placed it inside one of Nancy’s many cake tins, this one was white with a smattering of pale pink roses, and was a set of three; Nancy had taken the other two with her to…somewhere, and several more besides. He wondered if she’d sell/give away all of them, whatever it was she was doing. The possibility of coffee and walnut cake left overs had him rubbing his stomach as he walked back toward the lounge. Maybe the old girl was right, he could do with losing a little weight. But damn it, at his age surely he was entitled to his home comforts, even if most of them were provided by the club.
He settled back down in his chair and pi
cked up his tea, damn he’d fancied a slice of lemon with this drink, and had meant to get it from the kitchen when he removed the gingery temptation. Well, he’d settle for milk, couldn’t be bothered to traipse back now. At least at the club one just had to look and someone materialised to see to your every need. He sighed with the imagined effort, and made do with milk.
“…it is simply a matter of responsibility, of providing for your children. The ordinary working men and women of this country make those choices every day, and part of that equation is looking to how many children you are able to provide for. If you are on a low income or are unemployed is it right to have four, five, six, or more children when you know you will struggle to feed and clothe them? Should we, as a State, be encouraging bad choices through our welfare system, choices that often come at the detriment of family life and child welfare?”
At a guess Sir George assumed Andrew had just revealed his plan to stop child tax credit at the third child, and quite right too. The damn poor bred like rabbits, producing an ill-educated and rude underclass, that neither respected its elders nor anyone else for that matter. They took all they could from the State, bled it dry, without contributing a penny toward their support. Well, they’d have to think a little more carefully from now on, procreating was no longer a career path.
“…working tax credit has provided a valuable support for many, but as with all of the Opposition’s tax credit benefits, it has been allowed to grow to an unsustainable amount. Therefore we believe it is fair, in the present economic climate, to ask people to work twenty four hours a week, before receiving the benefit. We have to be able to look the normal working men and women of this country in the eye and be unashamed of our choices. We have to be able to say that we understand times are tough, but that every member of society is working, together with government, to make this country great once more. And in doing so we think it reasonable to ask someone to commit themselves to working twenty four hours a week, when those working forty plus hours are supporting them, as well as their families…”
The Speaker called for order once more, this time it took longer for quiet to be achieved. The cries of shame on you, and other defamatory remarks were almost overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise from Andrew’s backbenchers, shouting in support of his policies. Sir George nodded in respect of a job well done, Andrew had finally mastered the game, and the Republican Party loved him for it.
Chapter forty
Sue
Sue ate her porridge as she sat and watched the Sunday Politics Show. Dan Forester was interviewing the Chancellor. Sue usually found the presenter to be quite intuitive in the questions he asked, but on this occasion her irritation was rising; he’d let the momentum slip from his grasp and the Chancellor seemed more in control. Proust was doing his, ‘everyman grin,’ trying to pretend he had a grasp upon real life. Sue had watched his mid-week benefits speech and lost count of how many times he’d used the phrase, ‘normal working man,’ or, ‘ordinary working man,’ and, ‘the hard working men and women.’ It had been a cavalcade of subliminal messaging, if you existed on benefits you were neither ordinary, nor normal nor hard working, you were shirking your share of the responsibility for the economic downturn and bleeding the country’s resources dry.
“ But Chancellor what do you say to those in the public sector who have either had to cut their hours in order to keep their jobs, or work part time and will now be several thousand pounds a year worse off because of cuts to the working tax credit.”
“Well, first of all Dan it’s not a cut-”
“But those people who-”
“If you’ll let me finish, this is an important point, it’s not a cut, we’re simply saying that in the current economic climate it is not unreasonable that we ask people to work twenty four hours a week-”
“But if the hours aren’t there Chancellor, what are these families supposed to do?”
Well said Dan, keep going, Sue thought, as her grip tightened around her porridge spoon.
“Look, we’ve increased the personal tax allowance, taking several million people out of the tax system altogether, we’ve focused child benefit upon the families who need it most. But we all have to do our bit to lift the country out of the recession.”
Push him again, make him answer the question.
“Hum, and to thousands of public sector workers marching in the city today over cuts to their wage, increased pension payments, and extending the age of retirement…”
Damn it. Sue switched to a new channel in disgust; she may as well watch the cookery programme on the other side, as listen to any more froth from the Chancellor’s mouth. It tripped so easily off the tongue, he had an answer for every question that ensured that he absolutely did not answer the question. Why did politicians seem to be completely immune to the concept of common sense? They failed to join the dots and realise that there were no extra hours for men and women presently working sixteen hours a week to take on because the economy remained in free fall and existing full time employees were taking cuts in their hours and wages just to stay in work. That if you made people work until they were sixty seven, then youth unemployment would continue to grow. Christ, Sue couldn’t even imagine what it would be like, teaching a group of four and five year olds at that age. Urgh, everything seemed so…wrong. Where was the empathy, the compassion for people’s situation? Rumours were rife as to whether or not Blackthorn would lead his party into the next general election, and the Chancellor was one of those tipped to take over if he didn’t. Christ, imagine Proust in charge, god help them.
She left the remains of her porridge, her appetite gone, then stood at the kitchen work tops and inhaled deeply, and then again, her breath out slow and soothing. The system would not win. She’d been scarred just how far her mood had deteriorated recently, knew she’d been very close to becoming depressed. Everything had just become…had been…well, she didn’t like to think back because those feelings were all still there, behind a curtain in the corner of her mind. But it was the flimsiest of barricades, one that could be torn down merely by the process of revisiting. It had been a book that had saved her emotional wellbeing in the end, a small paperback volume, less than two hundred pages long but it had resonated within her. And the further she’d researched Nichiren Buddhism the more she had felt an enormous black weight lift from her body, it was certainly corny but also absolutely true, she’d seen the light.
Sue had been an atheist for many years, had really just hung onto the, ‘yes I believe in God,’ phrase because it tripped easily off the tongue, was what many people expected to hear, and gave her a safety net just in case it happened to be true. But in terms of her lifestyle and spirituality, she’d always flirted with the concept of Buddhism, so that when she’d actually devoted her time to finding out more about it, it seemed to compliment many of her own beliefs anyway. She’d found the chanting had reconnected her to the natural world, to finding beauty in the simplest of things, like the first snow drops in the garden or a wren feeding at her bird table, because she’d lost all of that before. When at work, like most people, she’d rushed through life, from one task to the next, at times oblivious to the wonder around her, and then, during her enforced retirement, she’d been too run down by the system to care. But the more she read, the more she accepted the need to take responsibility for herself, for her emotional wellbeing; she couldn’t change the actions of those around her, but she could control her reaction to them, and she chose not to allow the DWP to grind her down and sweep her into the nearest drain. Not anymore, they would not win. And, she was almost ashamed to admit it, she had started to allow her pain and physical limitations to define her, instead of remembering that there were always those worse off than she. There was a particular quote from Abraham Lincoln that resonated within her.
“Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be.”
Sue had made up her mind to be very happy, of course it hadn’t eradicated altogether those da
ys when the mere thought of making it through to the end seemed impossible, but it had greatly limited their frequency. The hard part was that she had been coming to terms with her new life, had even started to enjoy new hobbies, the only thing that kicked her down and held her there was the benefits system; had she succumbed to depression the fault would have lain entirely with them. Sue wondered how many other people struggling with a series of life changing problems had been unable to cope because the system, that shadow of the welfare state, which viewed every claimant with suspicion. You were a work shy scrounger, guilty until you could prove your worth, except no amount of evidence given in your defence was ever really going to hold you up above the scrap heap of life. As Mr Proust so eloquently had implied, you were neither ordinary nor normal.
*****
“Another one?” Rachel asked, “Haven’t you just had a medical for ESA?”
“I know, it does feel like I’m never away from the assessment place, but this was a new claim. I didn’t win my appeal on the last one, if you remember,” Sue said, her stomach flipping over at the memory of her prior hearing.
“So,” Kay began, and then stopped to swallow part of her chicken and mayonnaise sandwich. “How did this assessment go?”
They were sitting in a café of the local garden centre. Kay and Rachel had been for a wander around but Sue had retreated to the safety of the coffee house, she was just coming out of a flare up that had left her almost house bound for a week and a half, and didn’t want to push herself too far too fast. Typically enough the assessment had caught her on the up-swing, they never seemed to coincide with a particularly bad dip in your symptoms.
“To be honest I have no idea, I wasn’t really in there long enough to make much of an impression,” she said.
“What do you mean?” Kay asked.
“Well, we chatted a bit, she had a son just about to go to university and I told her about Lottie, and then she said, is everything just the same then? I sort of brought her up to speed, but I don’t know, compared to the other assessments I’ve had it all seemed a bit directionless. It made it quite hard to get your case across, in the end I was only in there around twelve minutes. So, I have no idea how it will pan out.”
An Ordinary Working Man Page 24