Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  Gillian’s eyes were now on the ceiling. She had already written Michael off as some kind of upper-class, anti-women politician (and I noticed at this point that she had deliberately pinned her ‘Lezzer and Proud’ badge to her lapel in preparation for his visit). Dee was behaving in an even more unhelpful manner. Pulling that horrible ‘spazzer’ face of hers behind Michael’s back while rubbing her eyes, fingers encircled in those gold sovereign rings that looked more like knuckle-dusters. The police were forever telling me that Dee ‘gave as good as she got’. I didn’t have an opinion on that, but today her eyes were looking rather manic and I reckoned that she had been necking the Tammies again. Dee was a wild card, all right. And she didn’t like politicians (well – who does?)

  “So, would you then?” he had prompted. “Help a man who had been attacked by a woman?”

  I had done my best to disregard the body language of Dee and Gill, answering, “No, we wouldn’t. Even if he was bleeding to death and shouting, ‘Help me! Help me!’ through the intercom. We’d just ignore him.”

  Michael’s eyes had widened in surprise. I’d seen him on the TV and in the newspaper plenty of times, but I had to concede that he was certainly better looking in real life. There was something about him that reminded me of the actor, Basil Rathbone. Albeit in technicolour and without the deerstalker and pipe (perhaps worryingly, I’ve always had a thing for actors who play Sherlock Holmes). But in real life, cut glass upper class accents have never done it for me. And of course, there I was again – blundering away with my usual smart-arse responses. Almost immediately I realised that I had probably overstepped the mark. He wouldn’t be used to such off-the-cuff remarks from one of his constituency workhorses.

  “Sorry,” I had replied. “But I often get asked that sort of thing. And it upsets me that people might think that we’d turn a blind eye to anyone in need. Just because of policies or statistics. Of course we’d help a man if he was genuinely suffering from domestic abuse. So long as we weren’t compromising the needs of the female service users.”

  Dee’s gruff tones then joined in the conversation, directed at Michael.

  “She gets a bit touchy, does our Rachael. You’re lucky that she didn’t smack you one for asking her such a stupid question. Eh, Rach?”

  Thanks for that, Dee.

  I had spent over an hour that afternoon trying to convince Michael that Sisters’ Space was more than just a council-contracted service, shoving a few leaflets at women. Yes, we held the contract with Medlock Council and did the bog-standard advice stuff, but our women’s centre went the extra mile with counselling, courses and working closely with other agencies like the police and social services. Yet, to provide all of these services, we needed far more money than the paltry amount that the council gave us under our agreement with them. Meaning that we relied on a small army of volunteers. And on a certain Rachael Russell spending hideous amounts of time on fundraising.

  Still, that was what made the work so attractive for me. Surrounded by people who genuinely believed in what they were doing. And despite my inability to rein in the sarcasm with him, Michael had impressed me. He seemed to like our approach, remembered people’s names and ate lots of our chocolate. And after the visit I was pleased that his ‘people’ had followed through with the goods – providing large amounts of publicity for us, which had led to a backlog of early orders for the chocolate.

  Lydia had been enamoured too, by the fact that a photograph of her mother had featured in the Manchester Evening News . She had cut it out and stuck it on our fridge, pointing it out to any visitors with a “Ta-da! Mummy is famous!” (My dad was less impressed, however, telling me, “Can’t be doing with that Chiswick bloke. He’s a slimy git.”)

  Other than the Gillian-wobble, Monday morning began in the usual way. I spent half an hour plotting out our staffing schedules and assigning time slots to existing cases for resettlement and support workers, counsellors and specialist court advocates. And then I headed for a quick brew and to check that Jade, Gemma and Jean had received a quick needs assessment before they joined in with the survivors’ support group later on in the day. Fellow survivors were often more helpful in urging someone to break the cycle of abuse than authority figures or perceived do-gooders like ourselves.

  The three women were in our kitchen-lounge, making drinks for themselves. Jean had come straight to Sisters’ Space after being discharged from A & E. She had a split lip and stitches through one of her eyebrows, having informed the hospital staff that she had fallen over one of her grandchildren’s toys. As you do, at 2 a.m. on a Monday morning. She was a frequent visitor to A & E, so they wouldn’t have bought her story, and anyway, she didn't have any grandchildren. As I walked into the kitchen area, the TV was blaring and Jean was holding a cold compress to her forehead and complaining, “There’s nowt on but shite. For people what have nowt better to do. Me – I’m normally doin’ me shift at The Samaritans at this time of a Monday.”

  I glanced at her. Wondering if she was taking the piss. Apparently not. Her gaze was fixed to the screen.

  “What’s on?” I asked. Apparently, it was something called ‘Cash in the Trash’.

  “Never heard of it,” I remarked.

  Jean commented, “It’s bloody awful. Where the presenters go through the rubbish bins of, like, rich and famous people in Hollywood and in London and that. An’ they nab all their shitty cast-off crap, an’ they do it up and then sell it for a mint. To some brainless pranny what’s impressed by stuff like that. But I wouldn’t be rummaging through anyone’s bins if you paid me! I wouldn’t. Bloody losers, bloody twonks.”

  I poured myself a cup of filter coffee and then looked at my watch. Just gone ten. I reckoned that Michael’s press conference would be underway by now so I asked the women if they would mind if I watched the news. Jean picked up the remote control and handed it to me. We seemed to be just in time. The BBC news reader told us:

  “And following yesterday’s exposure of a gay extra-marital affair involving government minister Ben Hardy, we are now going live to the Department for Communities, where the senior minister for communities – and Ben Hardy’s boss – Michael Chiswick, has just arrived in order to speak to the press.”

  The picture moved to Eland House, a modern fusion of glass and steel; a building close to London’s Victoria station. A place all too familiar to me. The news reporter took up the story.

  “And as you can see, there is a bit of a media frenzy here at Eland House. This is the first time since becoming minister for communities that Michael Chiswick has had to face any form of controversy in relation to his department. In fact, you could say that until this point it’s all been pretty much plain sailing for him as senior – but here is the minister himself.”

  The camera moved to the right and Michael came into view. He was smiling, wearing a short-sleeved shirt. No tie. Carrying a cup of coffee. That Breitling gleamed on his wrist.

  I moved my fingers to my lips, hiding the grin as a sudden memory of Saturday night came back to me. The watch had snagged my hair during one particular moment of passion and I’d stopped what I was doing to tell him that I wished some bugger on the estate had nicked the damned thing off him after all. “Be quiet,” he had murmured, “It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.”

  I shielded my smirk with my own cup of coffee. Michael was nodding at the throng of cameras, bodies and waving microphones that were being held back by officials.

  He began with, “I want to start by reassuring the public that despite the headlines over the weekend, it’s business as usual here at the Department of Communities. Insofar as the private life of a junior government minister is concerned, I will be treating the situation as I would with any other member of the team. Offering full advice and any necessary support.”

  A blonde, female journalist with an unusually low-cut bright yellow suit and a massive amount of cleavage on display was standing right at the front of the band of reporters. She attempted to
interrupt Michael but he held up his hand, speaking sharply.

  “Let me finish.”

  Jade blurted out, “Jesus wept! Look at the tits on her! Bet she’s not used to getting short shrift like that from a bloke. Mind you,” she prattled, “he’s probably gay, that one. Most of that lot are.”

  Jade was nineteen. She was tall and large-framed and favoured the Goth look – pallid, white foundation and lashings of black across the eyes and the lips. No physical injuries, from what I could see, but often the make-up can hide it. Certainly the clothes can. Gemma was petite and in her early twenties. She reminded me of a pixie. Perhaps it was the lime-green hair. She came to Sisters’ Space every couple of months with an assault of one kind or another. The last time she’d been with us, her fiancé had been trying to coax her to set a date for the wedding. By kicking her in the kidneys. She always seemed to float back to him, though. Today she was perched next to Jade, sporting a plaster cast on her wrist.

  She curled her lip and commented, “She’s a right one, she is. Simone Whatsername. Shaw. She’s got that column in News of the Nation and she does that gossip show on one of the Freeview channels. She’s full of it. Did some documentary where she had her tits made bigger an’ they filmed it all. The whole thing. Blood an’ guts. Reckons being slit open and having eight pounds of plastic shoved into you and sewn back up means you’re in charge of your life. But, like – how wrong can you be? I mean, alls she’s doin’ is gettin’ men to wank over her.”

  I looked at Gemma. I wondered whether she had encountered Lydia in a shoe shop recently. Or at least possessed a similar fascination with breast augmentation. Either way, I appreciated her take on things. She carried on.

  “An’ all she ever writes or talks about is bitchin’ about other people. She just slags anyone and everyone off. Can’t stand her. Stupid friggin’ cow.”

  Less PC, of course, but Gemma seemed to be more familiar with the likes of Simone Shaw than I was.

  Michael was now concluding.

  “And I want to finish by saying that, both the prime minister and I have been appalled by some of the regressive tactics that the media have employed in order to cover this issue. It’s as if the Leveson Inquiry never took place!” Here, he paused for a split second and deliberately looked at Simone Shaw.

  “And as well as the gross intrusion of individuals’ personal lives, some of the rhetoric used during reporting has bordered on the homophobic. I would like to remind everyone in the media,” he nodded towards the group in front of him, “that there is a young family involved in this situation. Please respect their feelings. Additionally, if it comes to light that any illegal means were used in generating the information gathered then I’m sure that the parties involved will look towards the regulatory recourse.”

  He turned away to face members of his staff behind him, indicating the end of his address. A chorus of voices jostling to put questions to him erupted.

  “Minister! Shouldn’t you …”

  “Mr Chiswick, don’t you think that …”

  He held up his hand again.

  “All right. OK. Just a few questions.”

  The first was from a BBC political correspondent, a reporter with ridiculously geeky looking spectacles. Not the ‘I’m so uncool that I’m cool’ look, but the truly nerdy-speccy-four-eyes look.

  “Mr Chiswick – an obvious question. Will you be asking Mr Hardy to go? What does the prime minister really think about all this?”

  “That’s two questions, Justin. Bit unfair on the others,” Michael quipped. The reporter smiled back. (It pays to be nice to a Beeb man.)

  “Anyway. ‘No’ to your first one. And as for the second, the prime minister’s take on the situation is exactly the same as mine.”

  More calls from the other reporters for recognition. Next up was a rather chiselled-looking man with a mid-Atlantic American accent. He said, “Interesting to hear your allegations about homophobia, Mr Chiswick. So, are you saying that you feel the press would have dealt with this situation differently if the individuals involved were engaged in a heterosexual relationship?”

  “No, I’m not saying that,” Michael shot back. “But what I am saying is that some sections of the media have been using terminology – employing language – that I and many others feel to be extremely derogatory to the gay community.”

  Another voice called from the back.

  “Does that mean you , Mr Chiswick? Are you personally offended by homophobic language?”

  “Absolutely!” He fought back “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  Jean was leaning against one of the kitchen cupboards, mug of tea in hand. She motioned at the TV and commented, “Hmm. That were an obvious dig at him. Tryin’ to say that he must be gay himself. Bit out of order, that. Whether he is, or isn’t.”

  I had just taken a swig of my coffee. It went down the wrong way and I started spluttering. Jean held a finger to her lips, shushing me. She was enjoying this Michael And The Media Show. But Jade had started to whine and fret about the fact that she was missing her favourite morning quiz show (‘House-proud and Horny’.) Jean gave her a filthy look. We carried on watching. Michael was moving away from the cameras when Simone Shaw in the sickly yellow suit appeared, blocking his retreat into Eland House. Jutting herself forward and challenging him. Breasts like twin torpedoes. She spoke into her own microphone.

  “Mr Chiswick, you’re blaming the press as per usual, but if it wasn’t for us,” she motioned to the rest of the media crowd, “the public wouldn’t have a clue about the adultery and lies of a government minister. How many more members of your government are leading immoral and deceitful lifestyles, which ordinary taxpayers are footing the bill for?”

  She held her microphone out to him. He looked at her with distaste.

  “As far as I am concerned, people who work for government are entitled to privacy with regard to their personal lives. Of course, the more senior a person is, the more the onus is on them to disclose relationships that could have a bearing on their work performance.”

  Simone Shaw attempted to interrupt him again, but he refused to yield.

  “And if you’re going to talk about wasting taxpayers’ money, you might want to look a bit closer to home, Ms Shaw. Because it was your newspaper that broke the story. Meaning that you and your colleagues are the reason why I’m having to stand here today talking to the media, as opposed to getting on with what the public pay me to do.”

  Again, she tried to answer him, but he continued with, “So I would advise you and your editor to think a little bit more about ethics and the bigger picture in future, rather than focussing on the art of titillation and booby traps.”

  Silence governed for a second. Michael’s face twisted. He was trying to control a smirk. It didn't work. Michael put his hand discreetly over his mouth and although Simone Shaw was trying to speak into her microphone, the sound of her voice was drowned out by a loud, collective bray from the other members of the press. A gaggle of schoolboys guffawing at a rude joke. Michael gave up trying to deny the humour now and moved his hand away from his face, joining in with the mirth.

  The volume of the laughter finally tailed off, so the viewers were able to hear him saying, “I can't believe I just said that. Oh, God. Wrong word. Sorry. That wasn’t meant to happen. I think I’m turning into Sid James.”

  He had opted for the Boris Johnson dithering mode again, which I had seen in his interaction with the police on Brindleford. All a ruse. Fresh laughter erupted and he shook his head in mock despair, turning away from the crowd and walking back into Eland House.

  The camera moved back to Justin, the freakily bespectacled political correspondent. He was trying but failing to disguise his amusement as he told his TV audience, “Well, as you just saw, that was Michael Chiswick, Minister for Communities, addressing the press on behalf of the government. He was scathing about some of the press treatment of Mr Hardy and his family. And as you can see, the minister had a particular point to
make about the media laying …” his face broke out into a grin, “into … ah … I mean …”

  The journalist started giggling, quickly trying to complete his report.

  “Erm, sorry. I mean, the media engaging in what Mr Chiswick referred to as ‘titillation and, er … booby traps’.” He burst out laughing. We could barely make out his next words. “And now back to Peter in the studio.”

  Peter in the studio was also grinning like a Cheshire cat. He began with, “Thank you, Justin. So we’ve just seen Michael Chiswick’s take on some of the media attention facing Ben Hardy. But there was also a bit of a bust-up there between a … mmpphhhh!”

  He dissolved into hysterics at his own faux pas. We watched as he fought to control his composure. And failed. Several seconds later, he was wiping his eyes, telling his viewers, “I do apologise. That was most unprofessional of me … Oh dear.”

  I grabbed the TV remote control and held it out to Jade, wittering to myself, “Honestly! What on earth is the matter with people?”

  Jade quickly changed the TV channel. “Yeah. So gay!”

  I ignored her remark. Not sure if she meant it as an insult or an adjective. Gemma plonked her empty cup of tea down hard, onto the coffee table.

  “I know! For fuck’s sake. If they think that’s funny, they need to get out a bit more. Sad bastards. I mean! Some woman has big plastic tits and all the blokes think it’s hilarious. Even the gay ones, like that minister! Bloody men. Anyway. I'm starvin’.” She offered a pack of biscuits around. “Who wants a ginger nut?”

  “Ha! That minister's hair were a bit red, weren’t it? Ginger nuts!” Jade snorted, accompanied by a collective descent into sniggers. I left the room and headed back to my office with Michael and his Sid James reference ringing in my ears. It seemed as though my life was morphing into some kind of Carry On farce.