Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  She shrieked at me in a loud monotone. Hard of hearing – certainly (if the volume of the TV had been anything to go by). Not wearing her hearing aids – probably.

  “I’m having a little paddle!”

  And then she launched into a chorus of ‘Oh, I do like to be beside the seaside’.

  Mr Bridges laughed bitterly.

  “Does she buggery! She’s still council. Or New Banks Housing Association or whatever it’s called since the council sold their houses off. She’s a tenant. I’m a what? A leaseholder. And I’ve told ’em I don’t know how many times that she’s lost her marbles. She in’t fit to be on her own …” He was talking himself into a frenzy again, so I broke in.

  “Look. Let me call them for you. I work in housing – with the housing people. You go back downstairs. Get your kitchen pans out, and get those kids downstairs to help you to start getting rid of some of the water. And there’s a bloke down there too – send him back up here, will you? And get your own leccy and water switched off. OK?”

  He paused for a second, but seemed to realise that he had very few other options (other than murdering his neighbour) and stomp-squelched off downstairs. I turned to the old lady. She was still merrily paddling away and informed me, “It really is a little bit like being at the seaside today.”

  “But, Miss Simpson,” I attempted at the top of my voice, “you’ll end up with a chill. I mean, my feet are cold and I’ve only been here for five minutes. You must have been sitting like this for ages!”

  “What’s that? I prefer Scarborough myself. Well, Blackpool was a trifle too common for my liking. Full of Scousers and the Scottish, you know. Probably still is. They never go home, those sorts.”

  “But we need to get your flat safe and dry for you again, Miss Simpson. Do you have a relative or a friend? Someone who you can stay with for a little while until we get everything sorted out here?”

  “What’s that?!” she shrieked again. Followed by the opening lines of ‘Liverpool Lou’. I groaned inwardly. This was going to be difficult. Uncomfortably similar to dealing with my own, illogically-reasoning small children. But, obviously, a lot more distressing. Because at least with kids you can hope that one day the wee varmints might begin to make more sense to you.

  Miss Simpson’s home could have made a small fortune as a set for a 1970s or 80s TV series. Well, if it had been cleaner, perhaps. I desperately scanned the living room for photographs of any friends or relatives. The only pictures on the walls were of the Royal Family. And I doubted whether Prince Harry’s recently acquired philanthropic backbone would involve him offering to parachute into the Peak District in order to rescue smelly old ladies from their watery abodes.

  High-pitched voices from the stairwell declared the arrival of Freckles and Fang, followed by Michael. Miss Simpson looked up, ceasing her warbling. Suddenly becoming more animated.

  “Ooh – you’re that one off the television, aren’t you?” Rheumy eyes fixed on her new visitor. Michael nodded warmly, exuding senior politician status (despite the shorts and oily T-shirt).

  “Well, you may call me Mary. And I must say, that it’s an absolute privilege to finally meet you in person!” Miss Simpson shrieked, her voice adopting a much more refined accent now. “Some people are just born to read the news. They have the breeding. A bit like that Trevor McDonald. A proper gentleman. And he’s actually black, that chappie is. He really is! You really wouldn’t know it though, if you closed your eyes and just listened to him.”

  Michael smiled indulgently. Fang and Freckles looked at each other, then back at Michael. All wide-eyed. The same beleaguered expression. I could see now that the children were twins. Yes. Very twinnishly-alike.

  “Hey, Mister – are you famous then? Do you really read the news? Which channel? Is it Sky?”

  Michael neatly side-stepped the question.

  “Well, my job does have a bit to do with the news,” he admitted. “But let’s focus on this good lady here. What are we going to do to help her get out of this mess?” He looked at me, raising his eyebrows.

  “Well. That’s why I wanted you up here, Michael. My mobile is in my car. I need to borrow yours.”

  He sighed. “And there was I, thinking that the call for me upstairs could be for something a little more fanciful.” He reached into the pocket of his shorts and was about to pass me his phone, but with a flick of my head I saw what Fang was up to and instead of taking the mobile, I ended up leaping towards the boy, yelling, “Oi!” at the little critter.

  “Hey! Gerroff! Friggin’ ’ell!” the kid blurted back at me. He had been incredibly quick off the mark and was attempting to sneak a photo of Michael using his own phone. I whipped the mobile out of his trigger-happy hands and stabbed a finger at him.

  “No photos! This is not your school playground – this is someone’s house!”

  “Give it us back! I only wanted a photo to show me mates. Check out if ’e really is famous!”

  He squinted at Michael with fierce concentration. As if, if he stared hard enough, the relevant episode of X Factor or Hollyoaks might come flooding back to him. Fame in Fang’s eyes probably didn’t lend itself to editorials in The Guardian or a grilling on Newsnight .

  I handed him his phone back. “Tough. Now just behave yourself, won’t you? And anyway, you two should be back downstairs. With your pans. Helping Mr Bridges to bail out. Go on!”

  I pointed to the door and the boy scowled at me, muttering something like “Stroppy mare” as they slouched back downstairs. I turned to Michael. He was beaming that blinding grin at me again.

  “Blimey. You are indeed a dark horse. Even if somewhat stroppy. Emergency services, bossy teacher, bodyguard and PR person all rolled into one. Would you like a job?”

  I reminded Michael that I wasn’t a wealthy relative of his and therefore I didn’t possess the right credentials to work for him.

  He sighed. “You really shouldn’t believe everything that you read in the papers, you know.” He handed me his phone, which had been tucked somewhere into his shorts. It felt pleasantly warm to the touch.

  A fleeting – surprisingly lustful – thought crossed my mind. I shook it away. Bit of a sidewinder, that.

  While I fiddled with his phone, Michael informed me that the twins – whose names were Tia and Tyler – hadn’t been particularly interested in helping Mr Bridges to bail out his property. Tia had been more intent on telling Michael that she liked to call their social landlord ‘New Wanks’. And Tyler had been experimenting to find out whether the wallpaper was easier to “rip off in one big peel now that it’s all piss-wet through”. Apparently, Mr Bridges had objected to this and had threatened to hit Tyler on the head with his Ken Hom wok.

  “So as a bit of an incentive, I’ve offered them a tenner if they knuckle down and do a decent job of assisting Mr Bridges properly.”

  I wondered whether Mr Bridges would end up voting for Michael at the next election, as a result of his help. Probably not, if the faded BNP flyer in the chap’s front window was anything to go by. And anyway, Mr Bridges seemed completely oblivious to the fact that a senior government minister had been helping him out of his soggy situation.

  Chapter 2

  PANDORA PROPS UP POSEIDON

  As I fiddled with the internet on Michael’s phone, Miss Simpson persisted with her tuneless wailing. It was ‘My ain folk’ now.

  Michael whispered to me. “You know, she really should be in specialist – sheltered –housing or something. I’ve never understood why old people don’t ask for more help. It’s there for them, after all. Britain has an amazing welfare state in comparison to most other developed countries. I’m proud of how hard I’ve fought to keep it. People really should make the most of it!”

  I looked up from the phone. His lips were pursed. Genuinely baffled. I smiled, blankly. Then politely resumed my button-pressing. Talk about naïve, I thought. Or maybe, he was a bit dim after all. Perhaps he truly believed that someone like Miss Simpson wou
ld be able to ask for help. Still. You don’t get to be a senior politician unless you talk crap from time to time.

  “Right,” I told him. “I’m calling New Banks – the housing association – now. Going to try and get an electrician out to make things safe. Then social services. And some temporary rehousing help for Miss Simpson.”

  Michael put his hands on his hips. I think it was meant to be the Senior Minister Pulling Rank With Small Blonde Bossy Lady thing, but it looked slightly out of kilter, given his day-glow shorts and the oil stained T-shirt.

  “Look. I’ll just call up my PS – that’s my private secretary …”

  Yeah, I know what a PS is, thanks, Michael.

  “We could get the number of the person in charge at New Banks. Or the director of communities for Medlock Council, or whoever. And I could be on to them in a jiffy.”

  No. I don’t think so, Michael. (And the director of communities at the council is absolutely the last individual I want to be in touch with right now)

  So I quickly replied. “No. Let’s not go pulling your government strings and whatnot. Have some faith in the marvels of our glorious welfare state! We’ll go via the housing association call centre. Then you can listen to just how seamless your communities infrastructure is.”

  I grinned at him. He narrowed his eyes. I had been right the first time. This was a man not used to – or at ease with – having the piss taken out of him.

  To demonstrate just how this kind of thing did (or didn’t) work, I decided to put the call onto speakerphone. At first, the New Banks employees manning the weekend call centre were most helpful in meeting my expectations. They dropped the call twice. On the third attempt, we actually managed to speak to each other and they agreed to send out an electrician.

  But dealing with Miss Simpson’s situation proved to be trickier when I called Medlock Council itself. I explained to their call centre staff that I needed some speedy assistance from social services, but they insisted on speaking to Miss Simpson herself. So I let them listen to a verse of ‘The gypsy rover’. They eventually got the message. Next I asked for the contact details of an emergency duty social worker, but was told, “We can’t give out numbers to the public. And due to budget cuts they’re very short-staffed over the weekends. So you might not get a call back for a few hours.”

  Tell me something I don’t know.

  I turned back to Michael.

  “Time to circumvent the system, I think. But let’s do it my way, not yours,” I added, with a wink. (Pride comes before a fall.)

  As the manager of Sisters’ Space, I had access to Medlock Council’s intranet for housing employees. So it was easy to track down Linda Beveridge’s mobile number.

  After several rings, the call was answered.

  “Linda, it’s Rachael. Rachael Russell, here.”

  The Linda-gushing began in those familiar throaty tones.

  “Rachael! How are you coping these days? Are the kiddies okay? I’ve been meaning to call you for ages! Oh, and guess who I bumped into the other day at the town hall? Shaun. Shaun Elliot! And I was thinking – it’s been ten years. Ten! Since we were all working together at Manchester.”

  (Oh, bloody hell, Linda. Put a sock in it, won’t you?)

  “So here’s me and Jake, working together again. But for New Banks Housing now! And with funny old Martyn ending up as our boss! But housing is so incestuous, isn’t it? And then Shaun Elliot trucks up as the new head man for Medlock Council! Done even better for himself than Martyn! So, you can imagine Martyn’s face when he heard the news, because Shaun always had the good looks and the height, didn’t he? And …”

  (Linda! For God’s sake!)

  I tried to look for the volume button on the phone but Michael would have heard every word even if it hadn’t been on speakerphone. Linda had a loud voice. And she never stopped talking. It used to drive Shaun crazy when we all worked in the same estate office for Manchester City Council. His room was next door to hers, and he would often jump up and slam his office door to shut out the sounds of her wanton advice and excessive emoting. Linda never noticed, though. Hide of an elephant.

  “Anyway. Yes. I saw Shaun the other day. Mr Very Important Person found time for a quick chat. He was asking whether I’d seen you recently, since you stopped your London policy to-ing and fro-ing job and instead … now that you’re running Medlock’s women’s centre. Because there’s a job going at the town hall that you might be interested in, he said. I told him to give you a tinkle and ask you himself. Mind you, I always reckoned that Shaun was a bit keen on you. I was —”

  “Linda,” I had to interrupt the machine-gun mouth. The woman had no idea about that particular chapter of history. Hardly anyone did, in fact. But she still needed shutting up, as we were on speakerphone. I glanced over to Michael. He was peering out of the open window. Watching the pan-handling out of the front door below.

  “Sorry, I’ve got to be quick here, Linda. Big problem. Elderly lady. Very vulnerable. Flooded homes. Can you tell me who’s on standby homelessness this weekend for you lot at New Wanks – I mean, New Banks?”

  Thankfully, she took the hint. A few seconds later she was back on the line and by a strange quirk of fate, it turned out that Jake Bamber was the employee assigned to standby. I grabbed a broken pencil from Miss Simpson’s sideboard and scribbled his number down.

  “This is all quite interesting after all,” Michael called to me from where he was leaning on the window sill. “How the system appears not to be working.” I wasn’t sure if he was being sarcastic or not. I couldn’t see his face. But he added, “So do leave the speakerphone on, won’t you?”

  I glowered at his back, and then turned to Miss Simpson, shouting, “Do you think you could keep the singing down a bit, Miss Simpson? The minister here wants to use you as a social experiment and we’re finding it difficult to concentrate.” But she ignored me, launching into the fourth verse of ‘Scarborough Fair’.

  Jake Bamber sounded sluggish.

  “Yeah?” he mumbled. Not sounding at all like he was earning his overtime rate for prompt and punchy out-of-office hours emergency homelessness advice.

  “It's me, Rachael,” I announced, and began to gabble out the situation to him. He cleared his throat, now answering me in velvety tones.

  “All right. Stop there. First of all, I’ll forgive you for dumping me – the love of your life – for a life of domestic dross with your two ankle-biters instead. But do hang on a minute, Rachael. Because I’ve got a particularly gorgeous piece of arse right here in bed with me right now. Sound asleep in bo-bo land.” I heard him shuffle out of the bedsheets.

  It was now Saturday afternoon. (These people without kids.)

  “Right.” I heard the flick of his lighter. “Bit hung-over here. So try to speak quietly, poppet. And do turn the old lady off, if that’s her singing sea shanties in the background.”

  I sketched out the circumstances to him.

  “OK, Rachael. Correct protocol – due to financial constraints – is for me to ring around all of the B & Bs in Medlock. Find the cheapest ones with current vacancies. But it would be quicker to get the old dear over to Brenda Kray’s at Lancaster House Hostel on Brindleford. It’s the nearest place. Even though it’s out of the Medlock area and in Manchester’s boundary. I’m pretty sure that Brenda’s got a couple of rooms there right now. If you want me to back it all for you, though, you’d need to convince me that she’s vulnerable.”

  “Oh, Jake, of course she’s bloody vulnerable. You’ve just heard her singing! She’s paddling away, too.”

  “Right. Fine. I’m convinced. So. Get her over to Lancaster House. And a certain Shaun Elliot, who’s now in charge of the homeless side of things for Medlock Council, will just have to cough up the cost of a more expensive stay in Manchester. Now, there’s a bloke who’s sold out to become one of those faceless cogs in the wheels of capitalism.”

  (Oh, God. Don’t let Jake start wittering on about this now).
<
br />   “That’s ace, Jake. I’ll get her over there, pronto. Ta, mate.”

  “Fab. Off you trot. I’ll get Martyn Pointer to throw his weight behind it for us, too. Alright, he’s always been a bit of an old woman. And a bit too religious for my liking. But he’s not bad as far as the bosses go. Plus, he enjoys anything that leads to a bit of argy-bargy with Shaun Elliot, which can only be a good thing in my book.”

  “OK. Bye, then.” But Jake was on a roll now.

  “And whilst we’re on the subject, you wouldn’t believe how much shit Shaun has created in just the couple of months that he’s been heading up half of Medlock Council. Redundancies all over the place. I’m run ragged with all the union stuff I’m doing. Plus, I’ll never forgive him after what he did to my Rachael. Oh, I know you’ll say that it was years ago now but … management! Never sleep with the bastards!”

  Speakerphone horror at the forefront of my mind, I cut in as fast as I could.

  “Jake, I’ve got to —”

  “Oh, by the way. I loved your pic in the papers.”

  “What?”

  “With that Chiswick minister bloke. Him helping to promote your Sisters’ Space thing. Stunning photo of you as always, poppet. But what’s with the Tory boy? He’s not bad-looking actually, but it’s not like you to be hanging round with the smarmy bourgeoisie —”

  “Oi!” Michael’s head snapped round, glaring at the phone. “I’m not a Tory!”

  “Who was tha …?”

  “Right! See you then – and thanks, Jake!” I rabbited, prodding the ‘Off’ button on the phone and handing it back to Michael. He tucked it into his shorts, incredulous, “What a ridiculous thing to say, for God’s sake. I’m a member of the Fabian Society.”

  “Well, Jake’s a member of the Socialist Workers’ Party. And they don’t see a lot of difference between your Fabians and your Tories. But then I’m sure you know all that.” Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully before replying. A growth of stubble there. The weekend look, perhaps.