He seemed to accept my solution to dealing with the problem of a tear-sodden granddaughter and passed the phone back to his wife, and after making the arrangements for Lydia to be returned home at the weekend, I hung up.
Despite my clever remarks designed to dissuade the grandparents from grilling the girl, I still had to wonder if Lydia would voluntarily mention Michael to them. My stomach twisted, as I recalled the nightdress incident. And imagined a Liddy-embellishment; ('Mummy has a new friend. She was wearing a little lacy nightie in his house. And she was showing it to the Prime Minister, too!')
I didn’t think that Julia and Malcolm would expect me to remain in mourning forever. But there was a time and a place to break new romantic developments to them. If Michael and I did end up becoming something more than just a flash in the pan, I had hoped that I would be the one to break the news to them, as opposed to a Lydia-version of events.
I snuck out of my office and went to find a consolatory biscuit. Or twenty. For the rest of the day I managed to distract myself with work, meetings and plans for the launch. But I kept popping back to my desk to check the news on the internet. Sisters’ Space has access to the BBC websites at any rate; I like to make concessions for quality reporting as opposed to half-baked titillation for the masses. The story was still sticking. In fact, it was growing. The Archbishop of Canterbury had responded to a statement provided by one of the more rabid far-right Christian leaders. And then the President of the Humanist Society stirred up further controversy with; “What’s all the fuss about? We’re just talking about a baby wearing a badge. A badge that contains a nice, fuzzy, warm statement. A fitting analogy for all simplistic and medieval modes of thinking - such as religion – I think.”
Yes indeed, the whole situation was becoming increasingly surreal.
By three PM, following another email nudge from Martyn, I could no longer avoid the other burning issue of the day. Forget badges, babies and bizarre news stories. Chase Shaun.
First, I tried his mobile. It went straight to voicemail. He was probably in one of his oh-so-important Medlock Council meetings. No doubt, the Lord of Local Leisure and Communities Department would be presiding over high-level strategic direction i.e. whether the authority should be culling innocent lollipop ladies or, instead, torching blameless librarians.
So, I decided to call his office. Steeling myself for the officious, icy sneer of The Rottweiler.
“Renee McCauley.”
“Oh. Hello. It’s Rachael Russell here from Sisters’ Space – the women’s centre. Could I speak with Shaun Elliot, please?”
“I’m afraid he’s not available right now. Can I help you?”
“Yes. You can tell me when he would be available .”
Renee and I had already had a little run-in recently. I had managed to sneak past her kennel the other week, whilst she had disappeared to chomp a bone. She had inadvertently allowed me access to the Sanctuary of Shaun, Overlord of All Dark Things Municipal, also known as ‘Shaun’s office at Medlock Town Hall’. And she wouldn’t be forgetting that little trespass for a good few decades.
“Well, Mr Elliot is a very busy man. It would be quite difficult for him to find time to speak with you. Can you tell me what the nature of your enquiry is? I’m sure that I’d be able to help.” After hell freezes over.
I gritted my teeth.
“No, I’m sorry. But I don’t think that you can help. It’s quite an urgent matter - one that only he can deal with. I do need to speak with him directly.”
“Well, Mr Elliot is a very busy…” I cut her off.
“I know. You said. He’s very busy and he’s very important. You say that quite a lot, actually.”
She snapped. Spitting acid;
“Well, there’s no need to be rude. My job is to intercept communications for Mr Elliot which are of a less… essential nature and which can be dealt with by myself.”
My voice was already dripping with sarcasm.
“And yes - you really do cross all of the I’s and dot all the T’s - with regards to your job description. But never mind all of this. I happen to be one of the privileged peasants who does have possession of his mobile number. Which kind of indicates that he’s more than happy to speak directly with me. Don’t you think?”
“Well, if you have his mobile number, then why are you trying to reach him on the landline?”
“Because… because I do. I need to find out where he is. His mobile went to voicemail. And this is a very pressing matter. So, I need to speak to him. Urgently.”
Now the Rottweiler was flashing the sarky tone back at me;
“So, if it’s as – pressing – as you say, then I’m sure he’ll call you back very soon.”
“Look. Can’t you at least tell me when he’ll be free to speak? Or where he is?”
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t possibly let someone know his whereabouts over the phone. It wouldn’t be…”
I snorted appalled laughter at her;
“Oh, come on! What is this? I mean, we’re not exactly talking about the President of the United States now, are we? He’s the man in charge of community centres and council leisure facilities! Are you terrified that I’m going to try and drown him in a swimming pool during the local Brownies' sports gala or something like…?”
Right back at me, “Look. If you’re going to continue to be abusive towards me, then…”
I cut her off.
“Listen, lady – don’t ever use that word – abusive – in relation to someone getting snotty with you over the phone. If you want to know what real abuse looks like, then come and visit the women’s centre and listen to what a hell of a lot of females in our country are putting up with. That’ll jerk you out of your municipal cosiness, you…”
But she had hung up on me before I had managed to call her a ‘daft, jobs-worth bint.’
Which I concede, would not have been very professional or particularly 'pro-women' of me.
CHAPTER 14
I took a late lunch and tried to distract myself from the altercation with Shaun’s pet pooch by googling ‘best pets for kids when their parents can’t be arsed.’ The search engine came back with ‘sea monkeys’ which sounded to me like an awful lot of bother, what with us living nowhere near an ocean and what with you needing a Dangerous Wild Animals licence to own a simian if you happen to live in the UK.
But before I could investigate this any further, Bev wandered past my office, on her way down the corridor to the other end of the centre. She stuck her head around the door;
“Alreet, Rach.”
“Hiya. What you up to?”
“Just on me way to the barista training.”
She noticed my sandwich.
“And before you ask, Bev. It’s an egg and cress wrap.”
“Bleugh. Looks like someone blew their nose on your gusset.”
“Leave me alone. Go and play with your frothy milk jug – or your bean to brew ratio or whatever tosh those coffee-freak trainers are trying to convince you is actually some acceptable form of artistic expression.”
She pulled a face at me and wandered off.
The phone rang. It was Michael.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t call earlier. It’s been somewhat manic here. Are you okay, Rachael?”
“Yeah, I think so. The only fallout, so far, seems to have been around Adam’s parents.” I outlined what had happened and then asked him how it had been playing out for him.
“Well, not too bad, strangely. It’s a little bit like the other week with the Minister-biker story. This whole Jesus-badge thing is proving to be a very convenient distraction… We've got lots of other stuff happening at the moment in the Middle East; juggling the Yanks and the Saudis - which we’d rather keep away from the press.”
“Right. So, the Prime Minister isn’t too pissed off about it all?”
He burst out laughing. The knots in my stomach relaxed.
“No – not at all. The PM finds it all quite amusing actual
ly. That anyone would think that he - Mr dyed-in-the-wool atheist - might believe in such a load of old tosh about God.”
“Charming. Not at all patronising.”
Michael carried on breezily. “Yes, and doesn't it just go to show you? All of these crazy religious sorts - jumping onto the bandwagon in the press. Your dodgy demagogues and your rabble rousers.”
“Well, not all of them, Michael. Several hundred thousand Anglicans don’t really view the Archbishop of Canterbury as some kind of dodgy demagogue.”
He tutted.
“Well, not him of course. And … he’s another one who knows how to play the game with finesse. In fact, this is very convenient for Lambeth Palace too. They’ve just had another big run-in with the African Anglicans and their usual homophobic objections at some conference or another. So 'The Baby And The Badge' is a nice little side-show for everyone. Nothing to worry about.”
“Good. That's a relief.”
“But,” he continued, “With regards to all of that, I do need to ask you something. The PM’s office want to release a press statement explaining that the badge hadn’t been pinned onto Toby’s coat by his own parents.”
This surprised me;
“Really? That seems to be a bit… over the top. Does it really matter that Lydia gave him the badge – and not his parents?”
Michael’s voice was weary – but still cheery – down the phone line.
“Oh, it’s just that the PM’s people are thinking that there does need to be a response of some sort. An explanation. And that the best bet would be utilise a sort of ‘naïve source’ for outlining where the badge came from…”
I stayed quiet.
“So, Rachael. We were thinking… that it would be better if we were straight up about it. Told the truth.”
“The ‘we’ bit meaning that Alex the Twat… is angling for this?”
A sigh. Followed by;
“Look. I know that the guy is a complete prick. But he does have a crucial job to do… to provide damage limitation. And I’ve also got ministerial obligations myself - to the PM…”
“But hang on. You just said that the whole thing was a helpful distraction. A side-show. So, I don’t understand why putting out a press release that… ‘tells the truth’ as you put it… is so important?”
Michael tried to interrupt me, but it was too late. The bit about ministerial obligations had particularly naffed me off. What about my own obligations? To my children? To my in-laws? To my own wavering spiritual or religious beliefs - or whatever the hell crumbling remnants were left of them these days? My indignation flared and the fireworks began to start;
“No! I don’t see why Lydia’s name has to be dragged into all of this. I know I’m not some kind of celeb or a bloody Royal or whatever… But no. I don’t want my child being flashed all over the papers. I don’t want her name on the TV! She’s just some daft little girl with a badge-fixation, for God’s sake!”
“Well, what I was — ” Michael tried to say. But I was on a roll.
“Sorry to say this, but I'm not that bothered about the Prime Minister's family in all of this. Toby's face will always be pixelated until he's eighteen. Little Toby will get all of the privileges associated with his family name. He’ll get the private education. He’ll go to Oxbridge, without ever having to fret about paying back a crippling student loan. He’ll get fast-tracked to some City job… earning hundreds of thousands a year just because of who his parents happen to be.”
“Let me just — ” Michael began. But I raced on;
“Lydia won’t. She’ll just get her fifteen minutes of fame in some shit tabloid newspaper. And then she’ll get bullied for the next ten years at the local comprehensive school because she’ll have starred as some weird little kid in a religious controversy. As opposed to gracing the stage for Britain’s Got Talent. Or shagging a League Two footballer.”
“Rachael, I can't believe — ”
I barely took a breath.
“Still, whilst you’re at it. If your lot want this badge to be seen to have originated from a ‘naïve’ source… Well. Why don’t you put this in your press release; that it came from a kid who lives up north… and who probably subsists on a diet of mushy peas and pudding. Who is probably obese, a bit backward and so who’ll no doubt believe whatever bollocks you tell it about - when it comes to matters of religion.”
“Okay. Enough.” Michael’s voice was more than clipped. Trimmed with an edge that I hadn’t heard directed at me before. “Have you quite finished?”
Like he's my headteacher or something. Yeah, actually. I have finished. And so what? I’m not on the other side of the sodding Commons. Bugger off with your ministerial obligations and your hoity toity manner.
But I had run out of steam, so I gulped a breath in order to reply. He got in there first.
“For your information, Rachael. We weren’t going to suggest that Lydia is mentioned. I wouldn’t dream of giving the nod to that. I was just going to ask if you were okay with us simply saying that another child – who the family had met that day – gave it to the baby. And that therefore, it would have been impolite for Jane and the PM to refuse it.”
“Oh. Right.”
Silence descended.
A bit of back-peddling needed.
“I thought you meant that they… would. You know - put her name in the papers or something.”
A very palpable quietness at the other end of the line.
“Look, Michael. That might have sounded like a bit of an overreaction there…”
“Just a bit.”
“I should have realised. That you wouldn’t have allowed her name to be mentioned. Of course. It’s just that — ”
“Nobody trusts a politician, right?”
Was he genuinely offended?
“No… Michael. I’m not saying that. The Archbishop of Canterbury might be a dab hand at it… playing games. Politics. The press. But I’m just… some ordinary woman. I’m Joe Public. I don’t know how all of this pans out…”
“That’s not entirely true. You’ve had experience yourself in Westminster; when you were advising civil servants. You know how this sort of thing works.”
I half-laughed. It turned into a recalcitrant snot moment.
“Oh, please - I was a policy advisor! I gave the government tips about social policy. The welfare system. How to stop grinding the poor down even more. I wasn’t a spin doctor!”
“But you’re a canny woman, Rachael – you always — ”
“And when your own child is under threat, you know what, Michael? You do tend to get a tad bit defensive about things. But you wouldn’t…” I trailed off.
He completed the sentence.
“… understand. Because I’ve never been blessed with the joys of having children.’
I swallowed. Trying to explain myself better.
“It's not that. I just hate this attitude… that I seem to be hearing. This ‘we’ stuff. The government. The men. The voice of the secular establishment. It feels like you belong to some… Big Boy’s Club. Playing out your strategy with the press and the innocent public. Yeah – sneering at people who are religious. And that’s people like me. People who do have some kind of a faith. Or whatever you want to call it.”
“That’s ridiculous. We have plenty of women in government these days. And you know my own background. I’m Jewish. Jewish-Catholic for Christ’s sake! Educated at a Roman Catholic seminary school — ”
“Yes,” I snapped. “But your family were secular Jews. And you told me that all of the religious stuff at Ampleforth put you off it for life.”
“Well, I’m sorry if you feel that we’re – I’m – sneering.” ‘Sneering’ was cast back at me with rather a lot of venom. “… But, Rachael, if people of faith – or religion or whatever – can’t handle a bit of criticism… Can’t handle the fact that the vast majority of us reckon that they're all deluded - believing in such preposterous fairy tales then — ”
; “Fine, Michael. You just said it all. So, let’s go with it. And hey - if it makes it easier for everyone all round, I’m quite happy for me and mine to be alluded to as a bunch of simple-minded born-again Christians, who are clearly emotional cripples and who need to imagine a God to enable them to get through life. The sort of people who randomly accost others and provide them with Jesus Loves You badges.”
“Well there’s no need to — ”
“So, sure. Fire your press release off or whatever gung-ho military jargon you’ll all be using. But I’ve got to go. People with real problems in life. Maybe speak later — ”
I heard him replying with a pointed, “Maybe…” as I hung up.
For the rest of the afternoon I functioned on autopilot, the anger still seething throughout the journey back home. None of this was assisted by Steve Wright’s inane banter, so I changed the channel to Radio Four instead. But then jabbed the button to ‘off’ when the Prime Minister’s voice came on. Alright, he was railing on about the decline of the steel industry, as opposed to his religious affiliations. But whatever. I was sick of the whole lot of them.
Matthew was duly collected from nursery and if he had been banking on double the motherly love and attention given Lydia’s absence, the kid would have been one very disappointed child. A few chunks of cheese and a jam sandwich was tossed in his general direction for supper, but he didn’t seem to be too upset about it. As always, kiddy-TV let me off the hook for an hour or so. I tried not to look at my phone, tried not to stew about the fact that Michael hadn’t called me or sent any messages. By seven PM, we had watched the Christmas episode of Sooty and Sweep for the eighth time and I had been forced to come to a conclusion.
That this was It. End of story. That the Right Honourable Michael Chiswick MP, cabinet minister, ex-army officer, born of uber-posh Berkshire stock, would never be the kind of man prepared to put up with gobby, easily offended and religiously inclined, common northern birds. (Even if I am a dead good shag.)
Cuckoo in the Chocolate Page 14