Number 10

by Sue Townsend

  Even before he had sat down, the leader of the Opposition had received a written message which said, “Ask the Prime Minister if the train he was travelling in on Sunday arrived and departed on time, and the route it took.”

  The leader of the Opposition decided to drop his next planned question, on the latest Air Traffic Control fiasco, and take a chance. He asked the question.

  The Prime Minister got to his feet slowly and said, “I have great pleasure in informing the right honourable gentleman that our train left and arrived on time.”

  “I believe that it took a circular route,” said Tim Patrick Jones.

  In the press gallery a photograph was being passed from hand to cynical hand. None of them could remember having laughed so hard or for so long as they did at the sight of the Prime Minister in a baseball cap and denim jacket sitting with his knees around his ears on a toy train called the Choc Choo.—

  Adele and Poppy, both in baseball caps, sat behind Edward in the first carriage, and the older Clare children were sitting sulking in the guards’ van at the back as the train choo-chooed around its circular track. Adele’s nose rivalled the peak of her baseball cap, causing a parliamentary sketch-writer to observe, “Christ, look at that honker! It’s the size of an aircraft carrier; you could land a plane on it and still have room for a five-aside!”

  News of the photograph swept from the press gallery to the opposition benches in the chamber.

  The laughter became hysterical as the delighted politicians dissected the picture.

  Meanwhile, Tim Patrick Jones was pressing the Prime Minister to name the train! Name the train!

  The Prime Minister refused to answer, citing ‘security reasons’.

  The Conservative backbenchers erupted and the Speaker of the House struggled to be heard above the angry jeering, choo-choo and chuff-chuff impressions swept around the chamber, and the member for Barking Southeast, whose party piece was an impression of the Royal Scot leaving Waverley station, almost died of pleasure when he realised that he had a captive and appreciative audience.

  There was a terrible silence on the benches behind him when Edward sat down, and Malcolm Black said with awful kindness, “Don’t worry, Ed, you’ll recover from this.” As he left the chamber, Edward heard somebody singing, “The runaway train came down the pass and she blew…”

  ∨ Number Ten ∧

  FIVE

  Adele pulled Poppy irritably away from one of her long nipples and offered her the other. “For Christ’s sake, get a move on,” she said to the sucking child. “I’m in the middle of chairing a bloody meeting!”

  Poppy looked up and met Adele’s discontented expression, then continued drawing the milk from the blue-veined breast. Adele had come to loathe the whole messy, uncomfortable procedure, but she was a patron of the Breast Is Best campaign, an organisation backed by the Department of Health and many fashionable paediatricians. So she would just have to soldier on, but she looked forward to the day she got her breasts back and didn’t have to share them with a snorting, snuffling, greedy child. Christ, it was barbaric.

  And look at the fuss it had caused with the powerful artificial-milk lobby, the main opposition, Bottle Is Best, or BIB for short. They had conducted a vicious rearguard attack on her for showing favouritism, and had been joined by a gaggle of racing drivers’ wives and girlfriends who had recently given birth. They had formed themselves into a group called Full Throttle With A Bottle. Ferrari had threatened to withdraw from Silverstone and questions had been asked in the House.

  Adele reached out and switched on the radio and heard her husband’s faltering voice stammering something about a train before it was drowned out by the most extraordinary noise of more than 200 male voices shouting, “Choo-choo! Choo-choo!”

  Downstairs in a small meeting room, the walls of which were hung with significant pieces of Brit Art, waited three powerful and formidable women. They were hoping to secure Adele’s support for an anthology they were producing called Rumble in aid of the unfashionable cause Irritable Bowel Syndrome. They already had a short story from Martin Amis and a high-fibre recipe from Jamie Oliver.

  Lady Leanne Baker had taken advantage of the breast-feeding break to send a text message to her teenage son, reminding him to take his rugby shirt out of the washing machine and hang it on the Aga rail to dry. Sitting across the table from her indulging in gossip were Rosemary Umbago, the blind editor of the Daily Voice, and Baroness Hollyoaks, the dishevelled brain of the Liberal Democrats—she had entered the room only an hour before looking neat and almost presentable, but within minutes her hair was on end and her clothes looked as though they belonged to a woman of a different size altogether.

  Baroness Hollyoaks, whose breasts had never given comfort to man, woman or child, finished telling a mildly disreputable anecdote about Roy Hattersley then said, “I do think it’s marvellous how you manage with your visual impairment, Rosemary.”

  Rosemary snapped, “Oh please call it blindness. I really can’t bear those weasel words of political correctness. I’m blind, for God’s sake. I was born blind. I’m not one of those sensitive nouveau-blind people who keep whinging on about their precious sight loss.”

  Baroness Hollyoaks, mindful of Rosemary’s dislike of politically correct language, said, “So, Rosemary, I understand you married for the second time, to a South African. Is he a nigger?”

  ♦

  When the Prime Minister’s car returned from the Commons, Jack was surprised to see that the Prime Minister looked pale and ill, and that the smile that was almost as permanent a feature as his nose and mouth had gone.

  On the orders of Alexander McPherson there were no photographers present outside Number Ten. As the Prime Minister passed him Jack caught his eye and said, “You all right, sir?”

  The Prime Minister waved his glowering private secretary inside.

  “I’ve just had a drubbing in the House, Jack.”

  Jack noted with alarm that the Prime Minister’s eyes were shining with what looked suspiciously like unshed tears.

  “I’m sorry about that, sir,” he said gruffly.

  Instead of moving on through the door and into his office, the Prime Minister stayed talking to Jack. He told him about the train farce. Jack folded his arms and listened. When the Prime Minister finally stopped talking, Jack said, “It’s April the first, sir—perhaps your answer to the train question was meant to be a joke.”

  Edward shook his head. “No, I told a stupid lie; the truth is I haven’t travelled on public transport, or bought a litre of milk, or waited for treatment in a National Health Hospital, for years. I’ve completely lost touch with how most people live their lives.”

  Jack said, “Don’t your advisors keep you in touch, sir?”

  Edward blurted, “They inhabit the same sterile bubble that I inhabit, Jack. It’s years since I ate fish and chips from out of a newspaper.”

  “It’s years since anybody did,” replied Jack. “It’s a violation of the Public Health Act of 1971. Though it gave him no pleasure to confirm the Prime Minister’s sense of isolation from the people he governed.”

  A voice whispered in Jack’s ear that he was to tell the Prime Minister that Colonel Gaddafi was on the telephone and wished to speak to him urgently. Jack relayed the message but the Prime Minister seemed reluctant to go inside. “How do you relax, Jack?” he asked.

  “I sit down with a packet of cheese and onion crisps and a bottle of Kronenbourg and I watch High Noon, sir,” Jack answered.

  “High Noon!” said the Prime Minister excitedly, and began to sing, “Do not forsake me, oh my darling…”

  “That’s the one,” said Jack. “I must have watched it twenty times or more.”

  When the Prime Minister went in he spoke to his private secretary. Gaddafi would have to call back later. He cancelled his next scheduled meeting, which was with the NATO chief of staff. Then he rang Wendy and asked her to source the Kronenbourg, the crisps and a videotape of High Noon a
nd send them upstairs to his sitting room.

  He then called Alexander McPherson and asked him to arrange an interview with Andrew Marr of the BBC about his elaborate April Fool’s joke. He considered asking Jack to join him, but realised that it was too late to start messing around with the Metropolitan Police’s duty roster. So he watched it alone.

  ♦

  Malcolm Black sat at the desk in his shambolic office eating a poached egg on burned toast. He had cooked this himself in the kitchen of the flat. His wife was out and he didn’t like to bother the staff. Alexander McPherson said, “I dunno how you can work in this shithole, Malc.”

  Malcolm looked round as if seeing the mess for the first time and said, “I seem to work very well indeed and the opinion polls appear to confirm it. It’s not me that’s heading for a mental breakdown.”

  David Samuelson was sitting with his head in his hands.

  “High Noon,” he said in disgust. “He’s regressing. The storyline is simplistic, the use of the time metaphor is overdone and Gary Cooper’s acting looks positively arboreal.”

  Alexander said, “If I wanted advice from a bollocking film critic, I’d have sent for Barry bollocking Norman.”

  Malcolm said quietly, “The FTSE was down by two per cent at the close. The Bank of England are worried about deflation. Poor Eddy’s becoming a wee bit of a liability.”

  Samuelson said, “Malcolm, you’ve got a long streak of egg on your tie.”

  Malcolm poked at the thin rivulet of yolk and then licked his finger.

  Alexander said, “Ed’s OK. He just needs a break. Christ, if I had to do his job I’d be a candidate for Care in the fucking Community by now.”

  Malcolm moved his empty plate on to a teetering pile of fiscal papers and said, “I think I could do his job quite well.”

  Samuelson said, “We agreed, Malcolm, that you’d wait another five years. Are you reneging on that?”

  Malcolm smiled and said, “Events, David, events.”

  “Give him a week,” Alexander said. “I’ll sort the press.”

  Samuelson said, “He can hardly be seen to be lolling about on a sunbed in Tuscany with a Campari in his hand.”

  Malcolm laughed. “We could send him to Africa.” Alexander said, “Those press bastards would track him down. We’ll have to send him underground.”

  ♦

  As Gary Cooper and Grace Kelly left town in the buggy and rode away, Alexander barged in. “Now that’s the way to clean up a town, Ed. Give every bastard a gun and let them shoot it out,” he said.

  As the credits rolled, Edward pressed the button on the remote to rewind the tape and said, Gary Cooper-like, “I want some straight talking from you, Alex. Am I still up to the job?”

  Alex said, “You need a break, Ed.”

  “Do you think I’m Out of touch?”

  “Mori did a telephone poll for us this morning. After last night’s Face the Press fiasco, your personal rating has taken more of a dive than if you were jumping off a cliff face with a jungle creeper tied round your ankle. Eighty-five per cent of the British public reckon you have no understanding of the life of the average man or woman in Britain today.”

  Edward stood by the window, then turned as if he were about to deliver a Shakespearian monologue to an audience of A-level students. “I’ve lost touch with the people.” He raised his hands as if examining them for blood, then whispered, “Eighty-five per cent. So who are the fifteen per cent who think I’m in touch?”

  Alexander replied, “That’s people like us, Ed. The movers and shakers.”

  “But that’s clearly ridiculous, I am in touch with ordinary people. I talk to Wendy, and Jack-at-the-door,” exclaimed the Prime Minister.

  “Who’s Jack-at-the-door?” asked Alexander.

  “Police Constable Jack Sprat,” said Edward. “He’s watched High Noon over twenty times, and the April Fool’s joke was his idea, and it was his mother who was mugged.”

  An hour later, Jack received a message in his ear telling him to go upstairs to the Prime Minister’s sitting room as soon as his replacement arrived. It turned out to be Constable Harris, a young black woman whom he had once met at a small-arms training day.

  After a bit of banter about why he’d been sent for, Jack took off his helmet and was shown upstairs.

  The Prime Minister came forward to greet him and introduced him to Alexander McPherson, who said, “Congratulations, Constable Sprat, you’ve just won a week’s holiday.”

  “Where?”

  “Touring Britain.”

  “Am I going on my own?” asked Jack. He wondered if he had any choice.

  “No,” said the Prime Minister. “You’re taking me, and we’re leaving tonight.”

  In the intervening hour, inquiries had been made about Jack’s suitability. He seemed to be perfect in all respects: he had no wife, no children and no dependants apart from an old mother living in far away Leicester. Nobody in civilian life would miss him.

  Alexander had tossed a copy of the security report to Jack. It was impressively comprehensive.

  Jack scanned it and thought, “It makes me sound like a right sad bastard.”

  “Incidentally,” Alexander asked casually, “do you have any politics?”

  Jack said, “I can start the day a communist, eat my lunch a socialist and go to bed a Tory, sir.”

  Edward laughed and said, “And vice versa?”

  “Oh no, sir,” said Jack. “I could never start the day a Tory.”

  Edward said, “I always envied Jesus his trip into the desert—important decisions were made there.”

  Alexander snarled, “Yeah, well, we can’t spare you for forty days and forty nights. You can have a week at the max.”

  Jack said, “We’ll be pushing it to see Britain in a week, sir. Especially if we’re travelling on public transport.”

  “Public transport?” said Edward. “Wouldn’t it be easier to get around in a helicopter?”

  “Like the ordinary people whose opinions you’re so anxious to canvas?” Alexander asked scathingly.

  “What’s your objective, sir?” asked Jack. “What is it you want to achieve?”

  Edward blinked. “I dunno, Jack. I suppose I want to reacquaint myself with the concerns of the majority of British people.”

  “Do we have an itinerary?” asked Jack.

  When nobody answered, Jack went on. “Right, I’ll need to go home and pack a bag.”

  “And I need to go to Edinburgh,” said the Prime Minister excitedly.

  Since he was a small boy, his life and most of the days so far had been scheduled. Even when he had been most carefree, growing his hair and playing guitar in a rock band, there were arrangements to make, rehearsals to attend; and nowadays, when he wasn’t, his so-called leisure time was calibrated to the last minute. He had often made speeches about freedom. Now he had the chance to experience it for himself.

  ♦

  With the help of a senior civil servant, plans were made quickly. The Prime Minister’s absence would of course be noticed. His cover story was that he was to lead an exercise in post-nuclear government in a secret bunker hundreds of feet below the Wiltshire countryside.

  The Deputy Prime Minister, Ron Phillpot, was recalled from his five-star hotel in Belize, where he was attending a conference on the repayment of the Third World debt.

  Alexander volunteered to break the news to Adele and to inform her that Edward loved her more than life itself.

  “So what exactly are my duties?” asked Jack. “And for how long?”

  Alexander said, “You’ll be an escort.”

  Edward said quickly, “And you’ll be in charge of the money and tickets while I interact with the public.”

  Jack almost laughed aloud at the Prime Minister’s obvious childlike enthusiasm. In Jack’s opinion the public had deteriorated alarmingly since he had first qualified as a policeman. In those days most couples were married—a partner was somebody who part owned a small busi
ness, old men and women walked around the streets without a care in the world, and children didn’t shout ‘Make way for the filth’ when they saw you approaching in your uniform.

  The three men, Jack, Edward and Alexander, went through into the master bedroom and opened Adele’s drawers and wardrobes. The Prime Minister’s face was composed of unremarkable features, but it was instantly recognisable from Huddersfield to Soweto and would have to be disguised.

  Edward’s transformation into Edwina was surprisingly easy to accomplish. It helped that Adele and he were of very similar height and build, and that both of them wore size-eight shoes. And that occasionally, on bad-hair days, Adele wore a wig.

  Adele had often boasted to her feminist friends, “Eddy is such a girly.”

  It took only thirty-five minutes (including a close shave and eyebrow tidy) to transform Edward into Edwina, and it would have taken less had Edward not insisted initially on wearing a suspender belt and stockings. None of the men could decide or remember if the lacy purple and black belt with the hanging rubber suspenders was worn under or over Adele’s matching knickers.

  It was Jack who persuaded the reluctant Prime Minister out of stockings and high heels and into tights and loafers, pointing out that stockings and high heels were all right for wearing at a St Valentine’s candlelight dinner, but were completely unsuitable for traipsing around Britain in.

  Jack had to do the same when it came to choosing outerwear, persuading Edward that the pretty sun-dresses Adele had worn at their last Tuscan villa were too revealing of masculine flesh—and, he gently reminded the Prime Minister, it was not unusual to see snow in Britain in April. They settled on a capsule wardrobe consisting of a Nicole Farhi wide-legged suit, a couple of cashmere roll-neck sweaters—one pink, one blue—a pair of DKNY tracksuit trousers, and a long sweater to hide the Prime Minister’s crotch.