by E J Greenway
Richmond was squirming on the issue of health, a desperate, half-baked policy despite his level-headed Chief of Staff warning him not to try to develop policy too fast. With one hand we giveth, with the other we taketh away. Wood was right to pick up on the flaws. There were many. It surprised Colin, because Richmond was usually a perfectionist. His campaign against Colin fifteen months ago had indeed been perfect in every way. He had a competent, attractive, female campaign manager and at 39 he had youth on his side. Richmond sounded good, Colin sounded smug and insincere, Richmond looked good, Colin fared better in radio interviews. He hadn’t stood a chance against a professional journalist. The old cliché of style over substance.
Colin wrinkled his nose and breathed deeply. Here was the biggest mistake of the interview: Richmond would stay on after the next election even if the party did badly. There was much to do, a political mountain to climb. It may take a couple of terms to make the party electable again... He rolled his eyes. Well, he certainly had given the journalists the hook they needed for their story. Maybe he wasn’t such a professional after all.
With a light head and heavy heart Colin thumbed his BlackBerry, his eyes fixed on the card. But as he shifted from his chair there was a small, unexpected tap on his office door. He glanced at his watch – 11.03pm.
“Hello? Colin, are you in there?” A familiar, Lancashire voice called through the crack of the door.
Shit. Colin fumbled for a mint, slotting the business card hurriedly into his wallet. He opened the door to see a tall, slim man with a crop of curly blond hair smiling broadly at him. Colin returned the gesture, blinking through the bright light of the corridor. He was well rehearsed in pretending to be pleased to see someone he would rather not talk to.
“Jeremy, hello. You’re still around?” Colin purposefully blocked his office entrance.
“Well a Party Chairman’s job is never done, just been watching the boss. Thought you might still be here. How do you think our guy did then? Did you watch him?”
Colin pursed his lips. Jeremy Cheeser, Member of Parliament for Wensleydale, looked distracted, but he always did. It bothered Colin, the way the Chairman was always so incredibly nice. He might have even liked him, if it wasn’t for their personal history and Jeremy’s blind loyalty to the Leader.
“Yes, I thought he did well.” He lied, swallowing his mint and forcing another smile. “Covered all the bases I think. The headlines tomorrow will of course be about his admission that he wants to stay after the next election even if we do badly.”
Jeremy grimaced, but said nothing. He might have agreed that it had been a bad move, but an awkward silence descended. Colin expected nothing more than a guarded reaction to anything negative he might insinuate.
Colin coughed. “Is there any other reason why you’re here?” He prompted. The alcohol seemed to be catching up with him, his brain soaking it up like a sponge in a bath.
“Ah, well, I just thought….I’d check you were ok, as I was passing. Dropping some stuff off at the office.” Jeremy indicated to the heavy folder tucked under his arm and avoided eye contact, but Colin could spot the sympathy. It was the same every year.
“I’m fine. Thanks for the concern.” Colin responded flatly. His old university friend’s ‘moral Christian duty’ repulsed him and Colin didn’t give a damn if Jeremy thought he was going to hell. He considered that the bloody place may have even been more preferable.
“How’s Linda? And George?”
Jeremy’s face lit up. “Oh, it was George’s fourth birthday yesterday, Linda insisted on throwing him a party for his nursery friends, complete chaos of course! Anyway, Linda’s fine. She’s on nights tonight, she won’t slow down no matter how much I nag her. I said to her the hospital won’t fall apart if she needs to take a day or two off, especially as she’ll soon be on maternity leave anyway, but she just says that she’s the doctor so she should know best!”
Something stirred deep inside Colin. He suppressed it instantly. “Well, give her my best.”
“I will. We should have dinner sometime, the three of us. Actually there’s a mutual female friend of ours coming round next week - we could make it a foursome.” Jeremy flashed a smile. The timing of the invite had set-up written all over it and Colin mentally balked.
“Maybe.” Colin muttered, thumbing his personal mobile in his pocket. He wondered if the girl might text him tonight, beg him to visit. He hoped she would. He longed for her.
“Well, just let me know.” Jeremy patted his colleague on the arm. Colin noted his desperation to get away. “Anyway, best dash, I already feel guilty enough for not being able to see George before bedtime. Thank goodness for nannies!”
“Quite. See you tomorrow. Actually, have you heard anything about..?”
“Reshuffles? No, not a bean. Rodney’s very good at keeping it close to his chest, but it’s for the best I suppose.”
Jeremy hurriedly bid his colleague goodnight. Colin stood alone, switching off the television. He wished he could forgive him for preventing him from becoming President of the Oxford Union all those years ago. He wished he could overcome the jealousy he felt. He wished he could forgive himself for all that happened, block out the flash-backs which woke him in the night, cold sweat moistening his face and pillow.
Colin stared at the black screen through the dim light. The girl wouldn’t text this late, but he knew he could visit her if he desired. He snatched up his wallet, flipping it open. The picture he was so used seeing had worn over the years; it was dated and the colour had faded, but when he gazed at it he felt strangely at home. Colin ran his finger over the plastic which shielded it, those beautiful, smiling blue eyes staring back at him but without recognition of the sadness in his heart. Sometimes he would experience such anger and frustration, while sometimes he would feel nothing. The passing of the years hadn’t made it any easier.
Sighing heavily, he remembered the business card. He still had a call to make, and the rate things were moving waiting another day could be too late. Anyway, he was paying him enough. He’d better bloody well be awake.
Two
Tuesday, 4pm
It was the talk of the Members Tea Room. The usual 5 o’clock Shadow Cabinet meeting had been unexpectedly cancelled at the last minute, prompting rumour and speculation. Retreating to his office to await his summons by the Leader, nobody was more aware of the current buzz around Westminster than the Opposition Chief Whip, the Right Honourable Tristan Rivers MP.
“You’ve got your head in the sand again.” Tristan could hear the assiduous Deputy Chief Whip’s worryingly familiar words ringing in his ears. Perhaps Bradbury was right.
He sat behind his desk and buried his nose in Hansard, the daily record of Parliamentary debates. Best to carry on as normal. He could hear the faint chatter of his junior whips and he knew full well what they were discussing. He didn’t particularly care they weren’t scared of him, but most of them had undermined him for long enough. Just because he wouldn’t keep a ‘little black book’ of a few recalcitrant colleagues, or strong-arm them into the correct lobby, his whips had turned their fire on him in their own little revolt. But, Bradbury had argued, in the nicest possible way, if Rivers couldn’t keep his own troops in line, what hope was there for the rest of the Parliamentary Party?
“I don’t condone the ‘jobs for the boys’ attitude around here. It’s got to change.” Tristan had told him. Bradbury merely sighed.
Tristan breathed deeply and glanced at the clock. Moments later, his BlackBerry message came. It was time.
*****
Anthea Culverhouse MP, Shadow Secretary of State for Devolved and Constitutional Affairs, shivered as she hurried along the wind-swept colonnade stretching from the main Palace of Westminster to Portcullis House, the modern, airy and newest addition to the Parliamentary estate. Big Ben chimed 5.30pm, the pale autumn light fading into darkness, and Anthea felt the splash of drizzle on her cheeks as she kept up her fast pace, heeled shoes clopping stea
dily on the smooth slabs. For a moment she wondered whether she had brought her umbrella, but her thoughts quickly returned to more pressing matters. Reshuffle rumours weighed heavily on her mind, and in her stomach. Rivers was on his way out as Chief Whip, and a woman was heavily tipped to succeed him. It was just which woman.
She waved when she saw the lofty figure of one of her favourite colleagues heading towards her, a warm smile across his face and his curly locks loose in the chilly October air. Jeremy ground to a halt, his long legs stepping to the side so the two of them could talk. There was, of course, only one topic of conversation.
“On your way over?” Jeremy asked. The colonnade was a busy thoroughfare, MPs and staff charging through, chatting loudly. Anthea nodded, glancing around her.
“Yes, I feel like I’ve been waiting forever.” She said surreptitiously. “Why is it that journalists think you know more than you do about these things?”
Jeremy raised an eyebrow. “Yes, indeed. I hear Rodney managed to keep Gregory at Foreign Affairs and Steven’s telling everyone who will listen that he begged him to stay at Home Affairs as he couldn’t bear to lose him.”
Anthea looked incredulous. “Bet Barty feels lucky to have survived. If he doesn’t produce a workable education policy by next spring, I think he’ll finally be out.”
Anthea knew Jeremy was avoiding mentioning Tristan Rivers, but nothing really needed to be said. They had both read that morning’s Daily Bulletin – Anthea might become Chief Whip, but was that because of her long-standing friendship, close friendship, with the Leader? Or because she deserved the job? It had been nasty, vicious even, and it hurt her far more than she would ever show.
“Bet Colin’s miffed he hasn’t been given Home Affairs again...” Anthea began, keeping the conversation away from herself, but she trailed off as Tristan headed towards them, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scrolled through his BlackBerry. She knew where he was headed. His fate hung ‘in the balance’, as that evening’s London Chronicle had splashed across page 5, and it showed on his face. His strides appeared to pick up pace, but she smiled at him broadly as she caught his eye.
“Poor man.” She said to Jeremy once Tristan had vanished up the escalator.
“Yes, he’s...he’s a nice guy. Really nice, such a shame. I do feel for him, he’s been treated abominably.”
Anthea saw the genuine remorse in Jeremy’s eyes. He was right, and she wished she could help. There was something about Tristan she found intriguing, almost attractive.
“Talking of Chief Whip,” Jeremy said quietly. “Good luck. Cornish devolution’s going to continue to be a big issue for you one way or another.”
Anthea smiled weakly and made her excuses to end their conversation. Perhaps, if she went over to the Leader’s Office now to wait her turn, she might catch Tristan after his sacking.
*****
A click of the Leader’s Office door as it shut, and the relatively smooth reshuffle had turned somewhat bumpy.
“Damnit!” Rodney swallowed, slamming a glass of water down on his desk. His Chief of Staff Deborah pursed her lips.
“Bloody idiot.” She said flatly.
Minutes earlier, Martin Arnold, Shadow Environment Secretary, had announced to Rodney he suspected he might need to resign. Rodney had replied he hadn’t really thought the post of environment all that demeaning, but increasingly the look of utter hopelessness on Arnold’s face meant that the brief had nothing to do with it. Was he ill? No. Was his wife ill? No. Was anyone ill? Not that Arnold knew of. There was only one reason left for his swift departure, and Rodney had sensed what was coming. The meeting was over quickly, but not painlessly.
“And we’ve still got Rivers to go.” Rodney felt sick. He looked at Deborah, the most unflappable of all his advisors. Her objectivity amazed him and she was invaluable. “I wasn’t wrong to make him walk, was I?”
“Not at all. You made an example of him. Arnold can’t sleep with the enemy and get away with it.” She said. “It’ll produce some bad headlines, sure, but he’d be a liability long-term. He wasn’t even all that good. Give his job to Derek Bradbury. He’s done well trying to stop Tristan Rivers cocking everything up at the Whip’s Office.”
Rodney felt like a judge on one of those talent shows whose decisions can make or break careers, but if he made his choices purely on the balance of merit and raw talent then the new Shadow Cabinet line-up scribbled on a notepad might have looked quite different. His advisors, Deborah included, may have said “well, it’s up to you Rodney of course, you’re the leader,” but he took this with more than the merest pinch of salt. Tristan Rivers’ departure, however, was purely Rodney’s own decision. Cornish devolution was too hot an issue to have it botched up in the House, he needed someone he could trust to battle, make deals and scratch backs where necessary. And he knew just the right woman for the job.
“Rivers has arrived next door.” Deborah said, now stood in the doorway. She lowered her voice. “And remember, be gentle. We don’t want two of them sulking on the backbenches, Arnold will be enough.”
Moments later, Deborah had gone. Rodney smiled warmly at his Chief Whip, waving a hand in the direction of a green Portcullis-embossed leather chair.
“Tristan, thanks for coming. Please, sit.” When Tristan refused with a shake of the head, he tried not to let the rejection of comfort in favour of standing unnerve him. The chair had become a physical barrier, so Rodney perched himself on the edge of his desk.
“Rodney, I...”
“Look, Tristan, let me be straight with you. I think we both know why you’re here. It’s not been working for a while, you know that as well as I do. Your whips see you as too...timid.” To Rodney’s surprise, Tristan looked him straight in the eye. There was a defiance in him he had never seen before, and could only wish he had.
“And I’ve tried to be straight with you, for a long time now.” Tristan appeared to be shaking. “I have tried my very best to stamp my authority on the Whips Office, to run it how I see fit, but I’ve been blocked at every turn. I feel like I’m beating my head against the brick wall of my office during every meeting.”
Rodney rapped his knuckles on his desk top nervously. He felt that he had had this conversation with him hundreds of times and he had finally run out of patience. When he found himself spending too much precious time worrying about the petty bickering of the Whips Office he knew something had to give. And that, unfortunately, had to be the Chief.
Tristan fell silent, watching as Rodney turned on his heels and snatched up from his desk a well-placed Hansard. He flicked through it to where a sticky label marked a page and flipping it round thrust it at Tristan, pointing at the list of MPs who had passed through the lobbies for the vote.
“Take the fisheries vote from two weeks ago! It’s obvious which people are missing from this list, the editorial in the Bulletin lapped it up! Gary Lough, Patricia Joseph, Matthew Gaines, where were they? I mean Gaines, he’s a serial rebel, why hasn’t he been brought in and read the Riot Act like I asked you to? This was an important vote for us and we blew it!”
Tristan snatched the Hansard from Rodney’s firm grasp and stared at the list of names, as if they would somehow prove his salvation. “I…I tried, I told him to stay in line, I told him I’d withdraw his whip if he didn’t buck up his ideas….”
Rodney interrupted with a snort. “You have been trying for long enough! Just simply telling Gaines you will withdraw his voting rights and not actually doing it sends all the wrong signals!”
“I have it in hand, Rodney!” Tristan gripped the chair. Rodney looked at him with concern, noting the sweat beading at the man’s temples. “Look, I’ll make an example of him, suspend him...”
“It’s too late.” Rodney said with incredible finality. “You’re also meant to feed back to me what colleagues are saying, and I won’t name names, but as for what your colleagues in the Whips Office say about you...”
Tristan’s shoulders slumped,
but his voice remained firm. “Bloody David Fryer, it’s all him, isn’t it? He’s a complete shit, he’ll drip poison into anyone’s ear...”
“At least he gets things done! He gets results!” Rodney’s face creased in exasperation.
Tristan’s mouth snapped shut. Although Rodney privately commended him for defending himself, every time he spoke it was simply another nail firmly hammered into his political coffin. He was merely making Rodney’s point for him. Tristan looked broken.
“You’re the Chief Whip, they should be terrified of you!” Rodney’s voice was raised and at a slightly higher pitch than usual. He glanced at the clock – he was running late. Best get this over with.
“It’s a mess, and it makes me look stupid. I’m the one who’s blamed out there in the real world and I can’t afford that. Look, perhaps getting a space on a select committee would be better for you. The way I see it, you’ve now got two options. To resign, here, right now, or to be sacked. Which is it going to be?” There. Rodney had said it. All this crunchy debating with Tristan had really been futile. Now at least he had offered him a way out which could minimise his embarrassment, he only hoped he would be shrewd enough to take it.
“So my options are to go, or to go?” Tristan muttered in defeat.
Rodney gulped, his mouth parched. He would need something stronger than water after today. He lowered his eyes as Tristan looked crestfallen, his last ray of hope snuffed out.
“I’m sorry it’s come to this, Tristan. But basically, yes.”