Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  “So maybe. If you two can be brave enough to stand up to the grown-ups in your life – you know, a bit like the kids in ET or … The Goonies ?” My knowledge of children’s films made in the twenty-first century was proving to be a bit embarrassing. Either that, or these two had never seen any of the classic kids’ films. Both were looking a bit clueless now.

  “Erm. Home Alone ?” I asked. They nodded. At least they’d heard of that one.

  “OK. So. Maybe in a few years’ time you might end up having a book written about you. Or even a film made about the kind of kids you two are. You know. Really tough kids. Well hard. Taking a stand.”

  I wasn’t sure if my film idea sounded really flaky or just crappy and transparent. So I decided to throw in a monetary benefit. Despite what I’d just told them about the greed of grown-ups.

  “And obviously, if a well-cool film was made, you could have a lot of cash yourselves. When you turn sixteen, I mean. Without your mum taking it off you like she’d have to right now.”

  I thought a bit more and then tried to sound less like a capitalist, mercenary scumbag. “But you’ll have to be resolute about all this. Stay strong.”

  Both children nodded eagerly. Tia looked as if she was going to rock her head off with agreement. “Yeah. No way. They won’t crack us. They’ll never break us! Will they, Ty?”

  Oh good. The film analogy had worked, after all.

  And the hyperactive imagination of Tyler had been spiked.

  “Yeah! No ways! We’ll take it to the grave! Even if they, like, try and erase our memories with some weirdy injection shit. Or even if they, like, try and slice our ears off and pour acid in our eyes!”

  I interrupted his gruesome meanderings and moved to the back of Tia’s chair. I leaned on it in a subtle yet dominating teacher sort of way.

  “So, if you two are really genuine about your gesture today,” I pointed at the brown envelope in Tia's hands, “then I think that the very least you can do – no, the best that you can do – is write a little letter of apology to a certain man.”

  “But I’m shit at writing,” said Tia.

  “Doesn’t matter. Most politicians are, too. And he happens to be a fella who holds a lot of power in this country. He may even know a filmmaker or two. You need to tell him how sorry you are.”

  I grabbed a pad of writing paper and two ballpoint pens from my desk drawer and handed them to the twins.

  “Write to him,” I urged, tilting my head. Doing the Don Corleone. Wishing I had some cotton wool to stuff in my cheeks for dramatic effect.

  “Show the man a bit of respect, eh?”

  Chapter 18

  TABLOID TITANS

  On Wednesday morning, after dropping the children off and arriving at work, I visited Mrs Singh’s newsagent to see what the News Of The Nation had to offer today. Michael and I had had a long conversation the night before. I had told him about the twins’ confession. (“Don’t bother sending me their letter of apology, Rachael,” he laughed, “the less paper trail on this whole thing, the better.”) He had tried to reassure me that any news stories the following day would be much more favourable, thanks to the efforts of his own PR bloke, Marvin.

  But despite his upbeat attitude, my early morning had been filled with anxiety and distraction. I had been “in la-la land”, according to Lydia. My stomach clenched with icy dread as I entered Mrs Singh’s shop but I shored myself up with the purchase of a large quantity of midget gems – as well as the newspaper – and then headed back to my car for a bit of a perusal. But Michael had been right. In News Of The Nation the story had been relegated to page seven, where the newspaper claimed that Michael Chiswick was “furious” about the allegations regarding his private life. And I was pleased to see that no one had come forward offering a story about The Bimbo’s identity.

  But the News Of The Nation ’s coverage still contained an interesting element for me. An interview with one Michelle Murray of Lapwing Road in Brindleford. Shelley ‘I’ll Kneecap The Bastards Myself’ Murray was a woman I knew all too well from my time way back when, managing the Brindleford estate. It seemed that she had been canny enough to spot Michael in motion, telling the newspaper, “I just thought it was some bloke trying to nick our Vinnie’s bike.” Hence, her scrabbling to take a photo of him with her phone.

  Mystery over.

  I’d already noted Vinnie’s surname during our encounter with him. And it turned out that Shelley was Vinnie’s aunt. And that she thought it would be a nice thing to sell the photo to the newspaper and let the whole world know about her vigilance. Shallow gene pool sharing equally depthless moral values.

  She was full of self-righteous anger about people tearing around the estate on motorbikes. It was people like Michael who put the lives of Brindleford’s children in danger. She had some very forthright and interesting opinions. Such as:

  And now that I know it was the minister in charge of communities himself, I’m even angrier. Because instead of riding bikes around, why isn’t he sorting out the problems on our estate?

  I snorted in disbelief. Very much doubting that Shelley ever could have strung together such an eloquent sentence. Every interaction I had ever had with her on Brindleford had consisted of her either grunting in a Neanderthal fashion or attempting to smack in the face whoever was “givin’ me the agro”. She had even gone for me once. A proper, old-fashioned attempt at a headbutt when I’d refused her a transfer to a different street. Thankfully I’d managed to side-step her in time. I wondered if the News Of The Nation had any idea of the kind of tenancy and police record that their interviewee had. Probably not. Probably didn’t care.

  But another newspaper was taking a different approach. Hailing Michael as some kind of national hero. The Daily UK , the News Of The Nation ’s main rival, had a front-page headline that sang “Minister Saves Elderly Woman ... In Shorts!” Badly written, I told myself. Was it the minister wearing the shorts? Or was it Miss Simpson?

  But somehow or another – and it was probably down to that Marvin – the Daily UK had unearthed a little more about Michael’s Saturday afternoon. Pages three to five consisted of interviews with Mr Bridges and his daughter. Plus photographs of the damage to the two maisonettes, shots of some of the more salubrious streets (graffiti, etc.) on Brindleford, and an attempted interview with Miss Simpson. I bought a copy of both newspapers (“You’re looking better today, lovey!” Mrs Singh told me. “So pale yesterday!”) and once the initial writhing had dissipated, I almost enjoyed sitting in my car and perusing the articles. There was a rather unflattering photograph of Mr Bridges, standing barefoot in his living room as he attempted to demonstrate the sogginess of his abode. Because he was dressed in a shirt and tie (being of the generation that tended to dress up for photographs) and because the photographer had no doubt told him to look serious, he had ended up with rather a constipated expression And giving off the distinct impression that he had only recently escaped a lunatic asylum (sans shoes).

  James Bridges, aged 72, told the Daily UK : “It was the worst day of my life. I had just come back from the market in Ashton and I saw all this water pouring underneath the front door. I nearly died of shock. And when I went inside, it was just heartbreaking to see it all. Someone fetched the local MP. Well, I didn’t know he was the local MP then. He had these daft shorts on, and you don’t expect your local MP to turn up in purple shorts with a mucky T-shirt on, now, do you?”

  Mr Bridges told the Daily that Michael Chiswick located the stopcock, turned off the electricity, called the housing association for assistance and rescued the elderly lady and her cat from the flooded flat above. Then he began to bail out water from Mr Bridges’ flat using kitchen utensils. Diane Adamson, Mr Bridges’ daughter, told the Daily : “Michael Chiswick was an absolute godsend and I’m only sorry that we didn’t have the foresight to thank him there and then. If it wasn’t for him, I think the damage would have been a lot worse and my dad wouldn’t have had help from the housing association
as quickly as he did. And even though Dad is still a bit cross with the old lady upstairs about the flood, we are grateful that Michael Chiswick managed to persuade her to leave and to take her to somewhere safe. He’s a lovely man. He’s not my local MP and I don’t always agree with his government on things, but if I lived in this area he’d get my vote. I think it’s very sad that anyone would try to rake up muck about his private life. The News Of The Nation should find more positive stories to write about, rather than inventing a load of rubbish!”

  I remembered Mr Bridges’ horror – his panic – when he had realised that he might not have the insurance to cover him for the flood damage. I had thought of this several times over the last few days. But it seemed to me now that he had been covered after all. Otherwise I couldn’t imagine him or his daughter sounding so upbeat about the situation. Although, of course, the Daily UK would have paid them for the interview. Or perhaps even Michael’s people had contributed …

  Either way, I was pleased for them. For Mr Bridges, after so recently having lost his wife. Nothing worse than having an enormous dose of misery injected into your life and then even more piling itself on top of it all. I continued to read on, smiling to myself now.

  The Daily UK attempted to speak to Miss Mary Simpson about the incident, but as she is now resident at a local hostel we were unable to contact her directly. The hostel’s warden, Brenda Kray, told the Daily : “Miss Simpson is a very fragile elderly lady so she can’t give you an interview. But I can tell you this for nothing - that she is now Michael Chiswick’s biggest fan!’’

  Bless that Brenda Kray.

  I wondered if Alex the Twat and the prime minister would be pleased with the coverage, even though it had been Michael’s very own PR guy, Marvin who had generated the counter-story to the original tabloid story. I was relieved that there was no mention of my presence throughout the soggy situation. If Mr Bridges or his daughter had talked about me, in all likelihood the powers that be would have wanted my involvement kept out of it. Suited me just fine. My phone buzzed. It was a text message. From Kate:

  “U shd c wot MC put on twitr @ u!”

  I texted her back:

  “Don’t do twitr. Sum of us hav a life.. Dont txt me. MI5 watchin ...”

  I knew that my comment would feed into her very own peculiarly paranoid whims – usually about Big Brother and satellites in outer space watching her while she was exfoliating herself in her super-duper jet-stream shower cubicle. She watched far too much TV, did our Kate, despite her protestations about the overkill out of school hours lesson-preparation for primary school teachers. But no go, as per the freaking our Kate out. I immediately got one back from her:

  “Miseryguts. U reali want 2 no tho don’t u?”

  Yes, she did know me too well. I texted her a curt “Go on” back.

  “Sum1 askd him wot ‘that foto’ was all @. He sd ‘classy lady inspects my war wounds’.”

  I did the LOL thing. It hadn’t occurred to me that Michael ‘did Twitter’. Still, most politicians probably did. Had to, to keep ahead in politics. Boost your following. In fact, Twitter was probably the geriatrics’ choice of social networking these days. I LOL’d in real time at Michael’s tweet. Me. Classy indeed. I sniggered again, shaking my head. My car window was open and an old man trundled past on a disability scooter, casting a strange glance at a woman giggling away, alone in her car. I texted Kate back.

  “Every word true.”

  The car radio was wittering away and I heard Michael’s name mentioned. Radio 4’s morning news. The headlines.

  “Junior Minister for Communities, Ben Hardy has announced his resignation following the revelation of his homosexual affair. The prime minister has just issued a statement outlining his regret at the departure of Mr Hardy and containing a request that the press respect the privacy of both families involved.”

  I postponed locking up the car and entering Sisters’ Space for a few minutes, in order to hear the rest of the news. After the headlines, the Radio 4 newsreader continued: “And as the press, the government and the opposition continue to disagree over whether the Ben Hardy affair is a noteworthy scandal or not, Michael Chiswick, Minister for Communities told us earlier that some of the recent reporting focussing on him was a pretty pathetic attempt to tarnish his character and that he was sure they could have created a juicier story if they’d tried a bit harder. So, next in the studio we’ll be asking ourselves whether the media is making much ado about nothing.”

  Blah blah blah , as Lydia would have said.

  I switched the radio off. I was sick of hearing about it all. Although I felt better about the fact that the latest coverage had a pro-Michael angle, my sudden news obsession was getting me down. And my kids, too. Before leaving the house that very morning, Lydia had whined at me. “All you ever do is listen to the boring old news!” And then she moved on to tell me (in her best northern dialect) that I was a “bobbins mum who doesn’t even know what’s cool in footwear”. Apparently my cardinal sin was referring to an expensive brand of shoes (that she did not and would not be owning) as Footsie Wootsies when their real name is Tootsie Wootsies. I was in no mood for a reasoned discussion about this, however, because Matthew was fighting with me like a wild cat as I sought to remove the socks that he had been wearing for forty-eight hours. Doomed to losing both footwear battles in equally childish measures, I scornfully replied to my eldest.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, Lydia! I’m so sorry that I don’t know the latest designer tosh brands for shallow families! Maybe it’s because I have my mind on more important things. Like the war in outer Mongolia or northern Azerbaijan, or wherever!”

  Lydia stuck her tongue out at me. Hiccupped a half-sob and flounced out of the house, into the car. Slamming its door, hard. When I managed to persuade Matthew to follow us (luring him with a promise that he could wear his sister’s tiara), Lydia was sitting fiercely upright in her booster seat and scowling at me.

  “You’re a prize grump this morning,” I said to her. “Did you get out of bed on the wrong side, or what?” As if to a twelve-year-old. Always the verbal level that I had to pitch things at with Liddy. Until she turned seven in a few weeks, when I would have to up the stakes a bit and make the language more suitable for a fourteen-year-old.

  “Says you!” came her reply “You’re just one big blimmin’ pain in the ulterior!”

  I burst out laughing. Not helpful. Petrol to the flames.

  “It’s not funny! Don’t you dare laugh at me!”

  I decided not to reply and to give her a chance to regain her temper. Soon, we had reached the second track on ‘The Wheels On The Sodding Bus’ CD (it being ‘Five Little Frigging Annoying Fish Went Swimming’) and out of the blue, Lydia snarled at me in full-on teen sulk mode.

  “Just because you know about wars and things, you think you’re so clever. But people who listen to horrible things like that are just horrible themselves! And your head must be like just one big war, war, war all the time!”

  At the mention of the word “war” Matthew began a series of machine-gun noises. Followed by something that sounded like a ground to air missile attack. And then several landmine explosions.

  “Oh, do shut up, you stupid little beast!” Lydia snapped at her brother, borrowing a favourite phrase courtesy of Enid Blyton.

  Matthew impressed me by yelling back, “You stink like Timmy the dog!” (his own language skills were clearly coming on), but in the end I stopped the row by growling at Lydia to stop crying and then shrieking at Matthew to “pack in the explosion noises, or you’re in Time Out!” Both children were subsequently dropped off and I set off for work. Feeling worn out before the day had even begun. No. It had not been a good start.

  I vowed to myself that there would have to be less listening time for all things political and media while the kids were in earshot.

  But I swiped my way into Sisters’ Space feeling a whole lot better now, thanks to that wonderful Marvin chap. And Michael’s invi
tation the previous day – the London lure – had made me wonder whether a break would do the whole family some good. Despite the usual early morning bickering and arguments, I had been enjoying the company of the children more in recent weeks. Feeling less desperate; less suffocated, somehow. As I switched my computer on, I frowned at how closed in, how drained by their own little needs I had felt during the first year after Adam died.

  Things had been bad back then. Really bad. The hardball horror. Strike One – the accident. Losing him. The unfairness of Adam’s life being cut off in such a pointless, stupid and illogical way. It Should’ve Been The Holiday of a Lifetime. And he hadn’t even made it to the age of forty. Strike Two – the shock of being catapulted into single motherhood. (Yeah, that particular bit hadn’t been in the marital or child-rearing contracts.)

  A hard ball of fury and resentment had lodged itself in my heart. A canker of a curveball. Leaving me with painful, shameful deliberations. Wishing that I could be somewhere – anywhere – else. Entertaining those crazy thoughts and fantasies about abandoning my children. About buggering off and letting someone else deal with all the hard work and decision-making.

  And Strike Three, of course. The Great Life Insurance Fuck-Up.

  Oh. And not to mention Strike Four. An entanglement with a certain Shaun Elliot again. Shaun and the car parks. Talk about stress overload. Talk about an insane, horrific year.

  But that was last year.

  This is now, I told myself. And now is time to develop a new, positive attitude to life. All the blokes I seemed to know had this unshakeable confidence thing going on. Michael, Shaun, Jake, Martyn Pointer, my dad; hell, even the sodding postman and the way he’ll happily flout Post Office regulations to sign for my parcels when I’m not at home.

  What is it about women’s inability to throw caution to the wind – to take a risk every now and then?