More Than Love Letters

by Rosy Thornton

  The Daily Trumpet says: We have had ENOUGH of this Government’s moralistic cant and hypocrisy! We have had ENOUGH of sleaze and spin. Caught red-handed in a red-light district, we say Richard Slater MUST GO!

  More pictures, pages 2, 3, 5 and 7. Comment, page 6.

  Flat 6

  14 Charterhouse Square,

  London EC1 9BL

  The Prime Minister

  10 Downing Street

  London SW1A 2AA

  25 June 2005

  Dear Tim,

  You will of course have seen this morning’s Daily Trumpet, and I would like at once to take the opportunity of offering my sincere apologies for any embarrassment caused to yourself, the Party and the Government by my unguarded conduct. I am very sensible of the honour you have done me by entrusting me with ministerial office, and I am therefore particularly sorry to be the subject of such a scandal so soon after my appointment.

  I do have an explanation for my actions which I trust will persuade you that I have been guilty of nothing worse than a reprehensible lack of circumspection. This explanation I would hope to give you on Monday, if you can spare the time to see me. If, having heard it, however, you feel that no explanation is likely to satisfy the people of Ipswich, or the country at large, or that only my departure from the Government will be sufficient to put a halt to the adverse publicity and prurient media interest which will naturally be attracted by this unfortunate event (not least to the other person involved), then I shall be ready with a letter tendering my immediate resignation.

  Yours ever,

  Richard.

  From: Michael Carragan

  [mmcarragan@hc.parliament.uk]

  Sent: 27/6/05 11:49

  To: Richard Slater [rpslater@hc.parliament.uk]

  Hello, Richard. Well, at least you finally made the nationals: front page, above the fold! But where on earth have you been all weekend? I have been calling your number at both the London and the Ipswich flat, as well as at your office. I heard on the grapevine (coincidentally, over a pint in the Grapevine) that you are attempting to cling on to your perch at CM&S. I’m very glad to hear it. I would have hated you to have the distinction of possibly the shortest ever front bench career in the long, inglorious history of parliamentary peccadilloes.

  I surmise from the spectacular vermilion legs which were spread before me alongside Saturday’s cornflakes that it was the famous Margaret. (I think, if anything, the description in your e-mail may have underplayed them.) So, unless you have been seriously misleading me about the nature of her occupation, you are not in fact guilty as charged. So I’m sure you’re right to try to brazen it out. But do you think the Rottweiler will back you? He might believe your explanation, but I fear that attracting bad press is actually a worse sin in his book than the mere solicitation of young women for sex.

  By the way, you have featured large in the LFN postbag today (or rather the E-mails From Nutters inbox). Six correspondents have suggested ways in which the Government might deal with people such as you, all of which would almost certainly involve breach of Britain’s international legal obligations concerning cruel and unusual punishments. There was also one from a lady in Slough who, having studied your picture in the Trumpet, is convinced that Richard Slater is an alias for Dennis Smith, a convicted sex offender currently serving his community service order in the gardens of her Day Centre. If you are indeed Dennis, I have to inform you that being within five hundred metres of King’s Cross station is a breach of the terms of a suspended sentence which you received in 2003.

  Get in touch, mate – I’m sure you need me to buy you a few stiff drinks.

  Michael.

  Michael Carragan (Labour),

  Member of Parliament for West Bromwich West.

  The Hollies

  East Markhurst

  27 June 2005

  Dear Margaret,

  What a lovely surprise to see you at the weekend, and it was nice to meet Richard, too. I could hardly believe it when you rang me and said you were actually on the way over, though of course you are always welcome, and you never need to ask first, I’m sure you know that, dear. You are no trouble, in fact quite the opposite – it was like having two full-time attendants! You really spoilt me, especially that delicious supper the two of you cooked up on Saturday evening – with a starter and everything. It was like eating out in a restaurant! And it was sweet of Richard to think of getting the candles when you did the shopping (though in fact I had some in the drawer that I keep for power cuts, but of course I wasn’t going to tell him that). He reminds me a little bit of Mark, the way he was flattering and teasing me, but perhaps that’s the wrong thing to say to you. I’m sure he’s very different in lots of ways too.

  You did look funny when you arrived, in those jeans of Richard’s you had borrowed – what a strange girl you are, coming away without any proper clothes to put on. The legs weren’t too long, with you being so tall, but even with his belt they were falling off you. It’s those slender hips of yours. You are lucky you didn’t inherit my ample behind, because your mum has got it as well, though I shouldn’t say so, and in fact she was quite slim until she had you. I’d forgotten all about those old dresses of mine, too, until you asked about them when we were looking at the photo album after supper. All those old cotton prints – I bet some of them hadn’t seen the light of day since about 1960! You don’t need to bring it back, you know, the one you wore, I’ll never wear those things again. Just throw it away if you don’t want to keep it yourself. Oh, and could you tell Richard, thank you again for noticing that damp patch while he was up in the loft getting down the box. I’ve had a plumber out this morning. There was a slight leak in the hot water tank, but they’ve fixed it now.

  Thank you for the outing on Sunday, too. It was so nice to be driven out, and that Renault of Richard’s is very comfortable. I hadn’t been to the New Forest for a long while, and fancy you remembering that spot where we used to go and play Pooh sticks when you were a little girl! We played it there, your grandad and I, when Mum was little, too. It’s funny how sometimes the memories seem to compress themselves, when you get older. I was thinking of one particular picnic, and remembering you there as a toddler, sitting down backwards with a bump on the buttered buns, and then when I pictured your little frock all buttery, I suddenly realised it must have been your mum and not you at all. I wonder if you will ever go and play Pooh sticks there with your own children one day – I like to think that you might.

  My ankle seems a little better this morning. Last night when I was going to bed I finally did try some of that smelly ointment that your landlady made, and it tingled a bit, but later I felt the stiffness might be a bit less. I will definitely try it again tonight.

  I hope you won’t mind my saying this, Margaret, but I really don’t know what to tell Mrs Ashby at church now, if she asks whether you are courting. I may be an old pensioner, but I did notice the way he looks at you, dear, and just once or twice I thought you were looking at him the same way, though never both of you at the same time. Please forgive me if I say that I think Richard is a very nice man. (Listen to me, I sound like Aunt Gardiner writing to Elizabeth Bennet about how much she likes Mr Darcy!) But I do think you would make a lovely couple.

  Love from your Gran xx

  From: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Sent: 27/6/05 21:32

  To: Margaret Hayton [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Hi Margaret, where on earth have you been all weekend? I’ve been calling, but Cora said you weren’t there and was really cagey about where you’d gone and when you’d be back. And your mobile was switched off – though that’s not so unusual – so I just got the inevitable voicemail message. All very mysterious, very cloak-and-dagger . . . But I suppose you are in hiding from those gannets in the tabloid press. I couldn’t believe it when I saw it – how could they think that? Or how could they write it, anyway (or write it without checking their facts) – because actually you can se
e it was an easy mistake to make. That really was quite a spectacular outfit, you know, babe! I hardly dare to ask what they thought about it at school. It’s not the done thing, usually, for primary school staff to be caught moonlighting as good-time girls – it’s not exactly going to endear you to the moral majority on the PTA, is it? I know starting salaries aren’t great, but even at Brunswick Road very few of us have resorted to selling ourselves on the streets. But joking apart, Margaret, really I can’t imagine what a nightmare it must have been for you. How can those bastards just trample on people’s lives like that?

  My little problems pale in comparison, but things have come to an end with Gil. We had a good time last night, and it ended with a taxi back to his place. It turned out the kitten was for real – but Gil wasn’t. He was in the kitchen making coffee and the kitten jumped up on to a side table in the sitting room, where my eye fell upon his mail. All clearly addressed to Mr W. Thurston. W! Upon close questioning he admitted to being not so much Gil as Bill, or just possibly, at a pinch, Will. I was out of there. If a man is prepared to lie about the initial letter of his name to get into your knickers, then where does that leave trust?

  I’m seriously thinking of giving up men for a bit. You and me both, perhaps? Unless Richard takes more kindly than I imagine most men would to your tarnishing his shiny new job (which, do you think he is going to be able to hang on to, by the way?). Maybe we can set up our own exclusive Order and indulge in threnodial dirges together.

  Big hugs,

  Becs xxx

  From: Margaret Hayton

  [margarethayton@yahoo.co.uk]

  Sent: 27/6/05 22:50

  To: Rebecca Prichard [becs444@btinternet.com]

  Dear Becs,

  Sorry, I’ve been at Gran’s. I only got back late last night, and to be honest I haven’t been able to face turning my mobile on. I just wanted to be out of circulation for a bit. Damn right, too – the first thing I got when I switched it back on was an earful from Mum about embarrassing Dad, and having a position to keep up in the parish, and the rest of the familiar sermon. I thought she was going to ask me what I thought I looked like, going out dressed like that, as though I was fifteen. I think Dad saw the funny side, though – he was always fond of Roald Dahl.

  Richard had to go somewhere to lie low, out of the way of the newspapers and TV, and he knew that he couldn’t hope to dodge them for long in either London or Ipswich. The phone was already ringing non-stop by Saturday mid-morning. I asked him where his parents live, suggested he go there, but he said that he only has a mother, and they are not in close touch. I just said I was sorry in a non-specific sort of way, because his tone didn’t invite either sympathy or further inquiry. Then I thought of Gran. East Markhurst is the back of nowhere, and there would be no way of linking him to Hampshire. He drove us straight there, more or less as soon as we’d read the article. All he did first was dash off a letter of apology to the Prime Minister (whom he refers to as ‘Tim’. I find it utterly surreal that I should know anybody who writes to the Prime Minister as Tim). He has offered to resign if necessary, which would be just awful. I desperately hope it won’t come to that. I assumed he would want to sleep on the decision before saying anything to the PM, maybe take the weekend to think about it, and I was on the brink of saying so, but didn’t quite dare, because he was in this really focused mood, almost manic, like I’ve never seen him before. I wanted to write to the Prime Minister, too, to help to convince him of the truth, but Richard said it wouldn’t help, and I suppose he knows best – but it was horribly frustrating not being able to do anything about it at all. Richard posted his letter, and we just grabbed his duvet and some sheets, got in the car and set off. He drove north a little way first, instead of heading straight for Chelsea and the A3, and then doubled back, and he kept looking in the driving mirror to see if we were being followed. It was just like a cop movie, and it gave me the giggles, and then he started giggling too, and all that feverish tension began to ebb away. By the time we were out on the M3 he had relaxed completely, and we had the windows wide open and the music up full blast so we couldn’t hear ourselves think, which I guess was the idea.

  It was easy enough down in Hampshire to pretend nothing had happened, but it had to come to an end. I had school today and he had to go back and face the music at Westminster. And now . . . well, of course I need to stay out of his way. What he needs is to just let it die down, and if the press saw me anywhere near him it would kick everything off again. But it’s bloody difficult, knowing he’s down in London fighting for his job, with the vultures probably camping outside his flat, and me here unable to do anything to help. And you are right, I know, Becs – why would he want any more ‘help’ from me, anyway, when I’ve lost him his good name and quite possibly his career? But I’ve got far too much time to think. To think about the people who would print those poisonous slanders, with no regard for Richard’s feelings, still less for the truth. Apparently they did try to ring him for a comment before they went to press, but having only got his voicemail they decided in line with proud Docklands tradition to go ahead and print it regardless.

  Tonight, just to complete my cheerful day, I went to visit Helen, who has finally caved in and gone into hospital full-time for a spell. She is in a ward with five other beds, and although it’s meant to be an acute ward, not the chronic long-stay patients, some of the others looked pretty far gone, to be honest. God, those places are depressing – I think being in psychiatric hospital might be my worst nightmare. Helen looked different, somehow, even after just these few days. More detached. Maybe in less actual mental pain, but still, more . . . hopeless, though I would have found that hard to believe possible. I suppose they have increased her levels of medication, though she didn’t seem to know exactly. The patients don’t have responsibility for their own medication, the staff just come round with it twice a day, and it’s little cups of liquid, not tablets. I suppose it’s so no one can secrete them away to avoid taking them, or else stockpile them with a view to sale, trade or overdose. They must have to tell people exactly what they are on, if they ask, but I expect not many of them do. Helen is in no state to care about it. I might ask for her, but I expect they would refuse to tell me anything, since I’m not next of kin.

  I’m sorry about Gil/Bill/Will. ‘Threnodial dirges’ are worth a 6.5, but you could have had bonus points if you’d thrown in a coronach or a jeremiad. They would all suit my present mood perfectly.

  Love,

  Margaret xxx

  Flat 6

  14 Charterhouse Square

  London EC1 9BL

  28 June 2005

  Dear Mum,

  I have been picking up the phone and putting it down again all morning, wanting to call you, and in the end I have chickened out, and am writing this letter instead. I know we haven’t spoken in a while, but I needed you to know it isn’t true, what it said in the paper. I know it doesn’t look good, but she isn’t a prostitute, in fact she’s a primary school teacher, and her name is Margaret, and I haven’t even kissed her yet, and I don’t know if I ever will. But I do know that she would want me to tell you, so that you don’t go on believing the press stories.

  I know it was hard for you after Dad died, but it was hard for me too, and if you could have talked to me, tried to explain why I had to go to Aunty Sylvia’s, I might have understood. I wasn’t a little kid any more, I was fourteen. It was never the same after that; I was never sure when I came back home if it really was home any more. And I do think that somehow we could have found a way to keep Napoleon. But I love you, Mum, even if I never say it.

  Richard.

  From: Richard Slater [richard.slater@btopenworld.com]

  Sent: 29/6/05 22:55

  To: Michael Carragan [mikecarragan@yahoo.com]

  Hi Michael,

  Sorry I haven’t been in touch sooner, but I’ve just been keeping my head down completely for a while. I’ve had my phone off the hook, and the tabloid militia have been en
camped outside both the flat and the office. Every time I open my door it’s like that scene out of Notting Hill where Hugh Grant is in his boxers and gets blinded by all the flash bulbs. (Or was it the Welsh room-mate? And a towel? I forget.) I did escape briefly on Monday to go and be mauled by the Rottweiler. It wasn’t an experience I’d wish to repeat. You were quite right – where bad press is concerned he doesn’t distinguish much between the deserved and the undeserved. He made it quite plain that being caught in a clinch with a girl – any girl – in spike heels and feathers on a notorious pick-up strip is not behaviour conducive to winning favour and influence with him. But, against all the odds, he is letting me keep my job at CM&S – at least for the moment. My penance is an Our Father and three Hail Marys, to be offered up to my constituency chairman next week. Nothing to the press except that simple statement of denial that went out yesterday, which his office drafted for me, and then heads down and try to ride out the storm. No explanations, no details, and definitely no interviews – he was quite emphatic on that last point, clearly doesn’t trust me within half a bar’s length of a journalist. The dirt might stick to me for a while, but that is evidently of no great concern (I can always be quietly reshuffled back into the outer darkness at a convenient later date), and seemingly it’s better than the messier and more long-lived furore that would surround either my resignation or any attempt to tell the real story publicly. At least it means I don’t have to drag Margaret into it – she can be spared that. Characteristically, she of course wanted to take up pen and paper at once (this being her answer to everything) in order to clear my name in the eyes of the world in general, beginning with the ROTW and working methodically downwards. I managed to convince her that it would be a waste both of her time and (more important, in her view) of paper, since at No. 10 the appearance of sin in the national print media is viewed as no less reprehensible than the sin itself. It clearly sits most uneasily with Margaret’s scorching sense of justice, but in the end I persuaded her that the best thing is for us both to keep quiet and lie low for a while. Anyway, I’d love to take you up on that drink, Mike, but at the moment we’d be like goldfish in a bowl, and I’m not sure I want to be branded with dipsomania on top of my other vices.