Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  I decided to lie down on the bench. I tried ‘Breathing the Power of the Universe into your Centre of Being.’ A technique that Marsha, our mindfulness maestro, taught in her body awareness class at Sisters’ Space. I tried to remind myself that I had faced worse in my life. Much worse than this trivial media tin-pot tosh.

  Much, much worse.

  Maybe the twaddle and the self-talk and the extra oxygen worked, although it was more likely that I was utterly shafted through early morning Matthew awakenings. Either way, I drifted off into a semi-snooze. But I was cruelly jolted out of my drowsy state by a deep voice.

  “Slacking off, Stan?”

  I looked up to see Shaun. Looming above me. Blocking out the sun, so that I didn’t even need to shade my eyes. How very symbolic.

  Smart, sleek, in what looked to be yet another very expensive suit. I tried to sit up quickly, and he waved a hand at me.

  “Oh, carry on with your horizontal posturing. Don’t mind me. One of your staff said you’d headed off towards the park. I had a hunch that you might be here.”

  “Jeez, Shaun, you’re like a bloody bus ...”

  “Yeah I know, don’t see me for ages and then all at once it’s non-stop.”

  “No. Out of date, polluting the atmosphere and a big hit with pensioners because you’re cheap.” (Lydia would have added “and because you smell like travel-sicky throw-up chunder”, but that wouldn't have worked quite as well.)

  He did that really annoying eyebrow thing. Raising just the one. Once, when we had been in bed, I told him that I reckoned he must have practised it for years as a teenager. That he would have been the sort to stand in front of his bedroom mirror, trying to perfect the James Bond look.

  “How very rude. Especially when I’m here with your welfare as my main concern.”

  I sat up. About to disembark.

  “Well, whatever it is, Shaun, couldn’t you have just phoned me or sent me an email like normal people do? I’m sure you have a lot more important things to do with your time than mooching about a women’s centre. Or the local park.”

  “Actually, I do. Got a meeting to discuss our lovely CEO Roger wandering off into the land of retirement,” he answered, checking his watch. “But I’ve got a few minutes. And right now, seeing you is at the top of the list. Although I did see you several hours ago. Flashing your booty at the entire country.”

  I felt the colour drain from my face. I had already jumped off the park bench and was ready to leave. But his words seemed to have turned the cracked and dry cement around the park bench into quicksand. I couldn’t move. But I was sinking slowly, resolutely. My tongue felt thick and furry. And, for once, the words wouldn’t come.

  “So, let’s talk jobs, Stan.” He gave me a sly wink and with ultimate self-assurance, he neatly perched himself on the bench. “Because after today’s little performance in the newspapers, I’m now left wondering whether I should be offering you the head of PR at our place …”

  I sat down next to him, with a thump.

  “But that ...” I glanced sideways at him. “How did you know it was me?”

  He shrugged, and pulled a face. The downward shrug of the mouth. His best Robert De Niro face. (The Robert De Niro face was for when Shaun was being the big man, showing me that he was above caring. The James Bond expression was adopted in order to take the wind out of my sails. And there was that Bruce Willis face, too. The look that said ‘I’m trying to be compassionate here, but screw it, I’m still going to blow your Nanna up in sixty seconds flat.’)

  But right now we had the De Niro gurn.

  “Well, Stan, not too many people will be familiar with your bare back. But the mole on your left shoulder was a dead giveaway for me. So after Jake’s little comment about ‘your man’ and ‘the evening news’… and what with Mickey boy showing a bit of interest in your women’s centre all of a sudden, it hardly took a genius to work it out …” He cocked his head to one side. “And I have to ask myself, Stan. Where did all your political principles go? Getting mixed up with the likes of him? What happened to the CND? What happened to peace marches and demos? I mean, hardly a red in your bed, is he?”

  He moved to Bruce Willis mode. Trying to look concerned for my sake. It narked me. Neither Bruce nor Shaun did empathy very well.

  I turned to look directly at him. Slow-burning anger.

  “Firstly, that photograph isn’t what you think.”

  He laughed, shaking his head. “Yeah. So you weren’t putting sun-tan lotion on him, then?”

  “And secondly, even if I was seeing him, or was involved with him in some way, why would you be entitled to an opinion on it?”

  He stretched his long frame backwards. The classic hands-behind-head position.

  “Oh, come on, Stan. Use your noggin. The taxpayers pay me to do a job where I have to give a shit. Where I have to care about whether locally funded services are being run well. I’m their guardian angel, if you like. So if someone who is supposed to be managing a local service is running around half-naked in the national press … I do have to seriously consider whether Medlock council taxpayers’ money is being jeopardised. Don’t you think?”

  I burst out laughing. It had a slightly hysterical edge to it. I think I accidentally spat on him. Good.

  “Don’t you give me that crap!” I shot back at him. “You know that we’ve achieved all of the bloody outcomes that your lot have set for our funding. You know I’m good at what I do – that we help more women in the area than anyone else ever has. So don’t you start spinning a load of bollocks about me not running Sisters’ Space well!”

  “True. And no one’s saying you’ve not done a good job. Until now. But what they will be saying – if they realise who the pin-up girl is – is this: do we really want someone doing this job who’s not only flashing her bits all over the national press but who’s also shagging the man responsible for all the massive funding cuts? Cuts that are just about to be announced and which will hit the Greater Manchester authorities the hardest. With Medlock Council facing the biggest percentage slash.”

  I kept quiet. This was news to me.

  “But also because I do care about you, Stan. Not just your professional standing but personally, too. I know that you think I don’t. I know you think you got the shitty end of the stick with everything that happened. Between us. But I was trying to get it across to you yesterday – when you went off in a hissy fit – that I do. I do care, I mean.”

  Silence from me. He took a pen that he had fished out of his pocket. Began clicking it, in and out. Clickety click.

  “And when I twigged what you were up to with your Chiswick bloke, I mean, sure – there’s a part of me that felt a bit, well ... jealous. So. Are you happy that I’ve admitted that?”

  No response.

  “Well, you should be. Because it’s something I’ve never fessed up to anyone else before.” He clicked the pen again. Irritating me. Big time.

  “Still. I can get over all that. But can you? I mean, do you really think that someone like Michael Chiswick is going to stick his neck out for you? Everyone knows he’s a man going places. This is nothing personal, like, but why the hell would someone like him jeopardise everything for a fling with a single mother from up north? ’Cause that's exactly the way it’s going to look.”

  No response.

  “Some bint from Manchester – from Yorkshire or wherever you claim to lay your hat these days – has been getting the minister a bit giddy. It’s a bleeding gift for the opposition, Stan. A gift! You may be bloody sexy and smart and appeal to the likes of me … but no one – not even you – is worth the government coming crashing down. Sorry if it sounds hard. But that’s how they’ll see it. They won’t give a shit about you and yours.”

  I stayed quiet. Wondering if I could seize the clicking pen off him and stab him in the eye with it.

  “Just look at these funding cuts he’s presiding over. The guy is on another planet to you when it comes to political values.
I mean – he’s even ex-army, for Christ’s sake!”

  I looked at the pavement mottled with chewing gum. Shaun was on a roll.

  “So, forget him. Go for the damned job at our place. You’re wasted at your bloody women’s place. Think of the future. We’re talking another twenty thousand pounds on top of what you’re already earning. You can hardly refuse that. Come on – think of your kids. Front page of News Of The Nation … I mean, Jesus!”

  Normally, by now I would have taken up the bait. Mouthed off at Shaun. Delivered a rant and a rave or sidled off somewhere in order to silently fume. The perfection of passive-aggression. But not right now. Something felt different here.

  “Your family,” he was saying. “Don’t you think that you’ve been through enough?”

  Shaun stood up. Dwarfing my five foot two inches. He reached out his hand and smoothed my hair back behind my ear. A peculiar sinking sensation engulfed me as the blood drained from my upper body. And my legs felt on fire. Adrenaline rush. A Shaun-charge.

  No words, now. For what seemed an age. And then he spoke – a hoarse, voiced whisper.

  “And I know what I’m talking about here, remember? I was that kid without the dad. Without the mum, too. And yeah, I got lucky. Got adopted. Nice, wealthy family, for sure. But …”

  He looked away from me. Those oh-so-dark eyes, perhaps recollecting. An IRA bomb. An explosion in a pub. A five-year-old-boy, orphaned.

  That was Shaun.

  And he never talked about it.

  He rubbed that bump on his nose, as if to bring himself back to the present. Here and now, in a crappy Medlock park.

  “So, yeah. I know that money can’t buy you love, and all that. But it can go a good bloody way to alleviating things. To taking the pressure off. And this job – this money – would certainly do that for you. For all of you. After the … insurance thing.”

  I steeled my jaw. Regretting that I’d ever let Shaun into that little secret.

  The letter addressed to Mrs Rachael Russell told me:

  “We must regretfully inform you that your husband’s life insurance policy did not cover him for motorcycle riding. Although Mr Russell’s previous policy of some two years ago did contain cover for accidental death due to collision whilst riding a motorcycle, this aspect of the policy had been changed during the renewal application made seven months ago when Mr Russell informed the company that he was no longer in possession of a motorcycle.

  All of this detail is held on our records, which we are happy to share with you at any time.

  We are sorry that we could not be of any further assistance to you at this unfortunate time. As the event of your husband’s death occurred during vacation, we suggest that his holiday insurance may be able to offer you further advice with regards to cover and recompense.”

  That was me. That was my fault.

  Nagging Adam to give up the biking. Just after Matthew had been born. Too dangerous, Adam. You should have stopped all of that as soon as Lydia arrived. Now that we’ve got the two kids you really should sell the bike. And don’t forget to take it off the insurance. It’ll keep the premium lower, of course. Call them today. Go on.

  And as for holiday insurance? Sure, Adam was covered. But not for ‘dangerous sports’. He hadn’t thought that he and Jim might decide to hire a bike for a day – on a whim. And on their last day in South Africa they were trying to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment out of the trip without having to be bogged down by run-of-the-mill crap like insurance clauses. So the only help we got from the damned holiday insurance was for ‘repatriation of remains in event of death whilst abroad’.

  Yeah. Cheers for that.

  I stood on my toes. Not trying to gain any height. That would have been a joke. Shaun had a good one foot and three inches on me. So, I was just trying to gather some more oxygen. To clear my head before, I spoke.

  “Shaun, it’s nice of you to be thinking about me and the kids. But it seems that things are getting a bit confused here. Look. Going back to the newspaper stuff – at the end of the day, you don’t need to try and ladle any more pressure onto me. I’m big enough to look after myself. And I promise you that if my name, or Medlock Council’s, gets dragged into all this … into the media spotlight, I’ll resign immediately.”

  His chin tipped downwards. He was still perilously close. I could smell his aftershave. Citrus and spice and all things nice. I took a step back from him.

  “Now, I’ve got to get back to the centre. And you’ve got your meeting.”

  I turned to go and flicked a little wave over my shoulder at him. His voice drifted after me.

  “Right … I’ll hold you to that. But on the job offer … you’ve got until next Friday. That’s the deadline for other applicants. Not that you’d need to worry about them, of course. But we need to keep up the appearance of equal opps and all of that bollocks …”

  I kept on walking. Nodded. Not looking back.

  “And Stan? I’m not going anywhere. See?”

  Yeah, Shaun; but could you – would you – ever be seen going anywhere with me? Out in public, I mean?

  Due to Matthew falling into the recycling bin that morning, I had forgotten to bring my packed lunch. I headed for Betty’s Big Baps, next to the newsagent, and decided on a plain old cheese butty with lashings of salad cream. Staying on the safe side. Although Bev would no doubt still conjure up some allusion to pus or a fungal infection.

  I was confident that Shaun was trying to call my bluff. That he would never tell anyone else about my involvement with Michael. All this talk would no doubt prove to be mind games on Shaun’s part; there was far too much at stake for him. The liaisons between the two of us had always been kept secret from his own circle of friends and colleagues. So I didn’t believe that there would be any mention of Rachael Russell or who she was seeing – just in case Ms Russell herself got bolshy and wanted to spill the beans. I knew Shaun well enough by now. Best keeping little Rachael as his little secret. He might get off on coming across as being Mr Arrogant, Mr Abrasive and Mr Arsey, but he didn’t want to be known as Mr Adulterer. Didn’t want to hurt Saint Jess. Surely got to give the man a bit of credit for that?

  And he had his pride. And his reasons. Despite his shithead accolades.

  Maybe having both your parents blown to smithereens at an early age does that to you.

  I checked my phone as I trudged back to Sisters’ Space. Still nothing from Michael. Just half a dozen missed phone calls from an unknown number. Bank’s call centre, no doubt. They could sod off. Let their graduate trainees go and patronise some other, poor frantic widow with psychotic pixies for offspring. I would take a rain check for today.

  But maybe Shaun was right. Maybe chasing a Cabinet minister (or, to be more precise, dropping my knickers rather too quickly for one) was chasing moonbeams. Here I was, single mother up north. Barely managing to make the mortgage payments, even though I was doing my best: buying the shop-brand version of whatever crappy cereal the kids were into at the moment, forgoing the luxuries like fancy presents and holidays, pretending that I was getting a buzz from the wee treasures I found in the charity shop at the end of the road.

  And this month we had developed a bit of an embarrassing overdraft problem. Thanks to a failed MOT for a certain, much-loved Fiat Panda. Which apparently needed two new tyres and brake pads. And, of course, there was no male around to double-check this garage report out with (other than my dad telling me, “Sorry, love, I could only help you if you happened to be driving a traction engine.”)

  We had gone six hundred and seventy into the red. Hence, me not taking calls from random bank-type people at the moment.

  I had always been proud of my ability to make ends meet. But these days, I seemed to be losing that knack. We were fast becoming swamped by overdue bills and incoming demands. And although I loved Sisters’ Space, I had to admit that there was a part of me that desperately wanted to be able to relax about the financial side of things. Not have to con
stantly fret and stress about every little penny. Not have to worry about paying for the next batch of school uniform or argue with Lydia over whether I could afford to take her to see her latest favourite musical at the Lowry or at the West Yorkshire Playhouse (And God forbid that the kids might ever want to go to university.)

  I swiped my way back in to the centre and reached my desk, checking my phone yet again. Nothing. I reached for the sandwich in the paper bag and inadvertently squidged salad cream all down my shirt.

  Yes, this was me. This was my life.

  The afternoon dragged on, checking case workers’ advice logs and attempting to apply for yet another grant for Sisters’ Space. Usually I enjoyed the group planning sessions for the official launch of Charlene’s Chocolate Factory, some six weeks away, but today the gathering descended into an hour of interaction that should have been named Stupid Meeting Anonymous.

  After agreeing the final selection of chocolates that we would have ready for sale come the launch in early November and after ticking off the bookings now made for bouncy castle, magician and the usual ragbag of local fete stallholders, the women decided to have a natter about ‘what’s in the papers’.

  Shirley rarely spoke out at meetings unless directly asked, but she suddenly took it upon herself to declare:

  “Isn’t it odd? About that Michael Chiswick. He’s been all over the papers for the last couple of days. Yesterday it was some gay affair going on in his government department. And today it was stuff about him riding on a motorbike on Brindleford and some mystery affair he’s having! And he seemed so nice and charming when he was here the other week.”

  I was silent. Not even deliberately quiet. The usual ability to steer the conversation back to the point of the meeting had disappeared. I hoped that my always-reliable deputy, the outspoken Gillian, might be able to take over from my sudden attack of verbal constipation. But then Gobshite Central waded in. Dee (who was loose cannon personified whether she had necked a load of jellies or not) just snickered and pulled the ever present “spazzer face”, “Hardly fucking news, that. Fucking politicians. They’re always at it with some slapper, somewhere or another.”