An Ordinary Working Man

by Gillian Ferry

  “No, it’s-”

  “The place where you, as a politician can make the most difference, is that it? Is it all too much for you?”

  Andrew could feel his temper rising as his friend goaded him on. “Fuck you Nigel.”

  “No, fuck you Chancellor, because you have a chance here. If he wants forty-five percent, give it to him, in exchange for…an increase in threshold for personal tax allowance. The right won’t like it, the left will and Blackthorn will see the need to compromise.”

  Andrew shook his head at his friend, tiredness replacing the anger. “You should have been Chancellor.”

  “I know it,” Nigel smiled at him as he spoke. “But for some reason, poster boy, they picked you. Now, we have eight months before we have to deliver the right budget for the country. No more doubts.”

  Andrew nodded in agreement. “No more doubts.”

  Chapter thirty

  Two months later – April 2012

  Andrew sat, swilling his whisky round and round the tumbler, his gaze fixed and staring, he’d long since stopped reading the document that lay upon his desk. He took a large gulp of the amber liquid and held it at the back of his throat, feeling a welcoming burn, before he swallowed and allowed the sensation to spread. He could remember the first time he’d sat in this office fidgeting with a similar bundle of papers before him. Then the overriding emotion had been fear, he had been about to deliver his first budget, and he’d been less scared of how the content would be received, and more concerned about getting through the whole thing without ending up talking gibberish. It was an aspect of politics he’d never really considered when working for his local constituency, speaking before a large audience of hostile opposition. Of course, he’d been in the House of Commons on many occasions, but as an observant back bencher, not on the front line of accountability. He’d felt ridiculous the first time he’d sat alongside Prime Minister Blackthorn, and had to respond to an opposition attack with exaggerated head shaking and jeering. He’d often wondered what MPs were actually saying on these occasions, and had been rather disappointed to learn that it was not some intelligent comment, stolen from the populace by the flick of a camera, but a nonsensical gesticulation meant to convey ridicule and disdain, without having to actually put your objection into a coherent, let alone intelligent, sentence.

  Andrew stood and went over to the cabinet, removed the whisky bottle and a second glass before he sat back down once more. His first budget had been roundly criticised as not going far enough in the cuts needed to restart the economy. Those on the far right of the Republican Party thought he’d been weak on both welfare reform and taxation, while the People’s Party accused him of protecting the most well off in society. It had taken Andrew a long time to grow a skin thick enough to handle the derogatory comments thrown his way, and to have enough self-belief to plough on regardless. If it hadn’t been for the unconditional encouragement of his family, Nigel and Molly, well, he doubted he’d have lasted so long on the front line of the Republican Party. Looking back over the past year, and especially his first few months as Chancellor, he could see how his naivety had made him vulnerable. He’d thought the Party machine moved as one, working together for the good of the country, when in fact the opposite was true. Not of all ministers, he corrected himself, but for enough, the process of government was a path to their own end, not a destination in itself. Nigel had guided him through the cliques that surrounded the PM, told him whose influence was worth courting, and to which sector of the Party MPs, and their retinues, belonged. Until the day arrived when, much to his amazement, he’d become, ‘someone,’ whose presence and opinion was courted. Attacking the People’s Party was the easy part; circumnavigating his own Party correctly, in order to ensure the trajectory of his career, that was the real challenge. And yet, at his heart, Andrew was not a career politician, he coveted his naive idealism, cherished it as the true reflection of his political beliefs, and shielded it from the frontline of spin, scepticism and compromise. His very core was split into the public face and the private man. His public persona had evolved over the past year, the eager young pup of the Republican Party had grown up into a steadfast and loyal campaigner, who no longer baulked from his responsibility but welcomed the chance to help lead the country back to prosperity. In private he was still a loving husband, brother and son, who sat and talked long into the night with Molly, Josie, and Nigel but who was less scared of getting the whole damn political game wrong, and more concerned about communicating his message.

  He took another sip of whisky and drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, as if on cue Nigel knocked and entered.

  “That for me?” he asked, pointing to the other half filled tumbler.

  “Yep, did everything go okay?”

  “Yes, just some idiot fussing over nothing, bloody civil servants, they truly are the bane of government.”

  Andrew snorted in amusement. “Now, now Nigel, your natural cynicism is filtering through.”

  Nigel took a healthy swig before answering. “Oh, you know what it’s like, give a minor official a small task and it becomes a major incident, if they…no,” he shook his head and gesticulated with his free hand, “…I swore on the way over here I was not going to dwell on it, the matter doesn’t warrant yet more of my time wasted. How are you?”

  “Fine,” Andrew looked down at the bundle of papers as he spoke.

  Nigel picked up on his gaze. “Ah, is that it, the holy grail of economic recovery?”

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d appoint religious significance to it, but yes, I have on my desk the finished article, signed, sealed, rewritten and about to be delivered.”

  The two men clinked glasses, reaching over from opposite sides of the table.

  “It’s a damn good budget you know,” Nigel remarked.

  “Oh I know that, I agree with everything in there-”

  “Just as well,” Nigel interrupted, “what with you being the Chancellor and all.”

  Andrew smiled. “You know what I mean.” He paused a moment before carrying on, “It’s a fair budget I think, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course I do. Why do you ask?” Nigel leaned over for the bottle of scotch and topped up their glasses.

  “I don’t know I just…I think it’s very important not just to be seen to be fair in the economic measures we’re taking, but to actually be…well, fair.”

  “Quite, very well said Chancellor, how much scotch have you had?” Nigel grinned at him.

  “Oh too much, definitely too much,” Andrew replied.

  “And do you think it wise to deliver a budget to the House of Commons with a hangover?”

  “No, I do not my friend.” Andrew stood, drained his glass and reached for his jacket. “I just need to make sure it’s…” as Andrew grappled for the right word, Nigel interjected.

  “…fair.”

  “Yes, I need to make sure it’s fair, you read my mind, as always,” Andrew smiled rather sadly as he spoke. He couldn’t explain it, the sudden melancholy. He knew it was a good budget, he believed in it completely; maybe he had indeed drank too much scotch.

  “Do you want me to pop it into the safe for you?” Nigel asked.

  “The safe no one, except myself, is supposed to know the combination to?”

  “Yes, that one.”

  “Yes please, I’m going to head home, see if I can actually see Molly when she isn’t sound asleep.”

  “It has been a very intense few months. But hey…” Nigel raised his hands in a grand gesture. “…you have tomorrow to look forward to.”

  Andrew laughed gently. “There is that, good night Nigel.”

  “Good night Chancellor.”

  *****

  Andrew shut the front door quietly behind him, even though he knew Molly wouldn’t have gone to bed without seeing him, not tonight. He’d just hung his jacket up when his wife’s tired voice called out from the lounge.

  “I’m in here darling.”

&nbs
p; Andrew stopped in the doorway and smiled at her, hair tousled with sleep, she’d obviously nodded off waiting for him to return.

  “What?” she grinned as she spoke to him.

  “Nothing, it’s just, you look so beautiful Mols,” he replied, his voice thick with inexplicable emotion.

  “Hey, what’s happened?” Molly went over to him as she spoke, a vision in her Winnie the Pooh pyjamas.

  Andrew drew her warm body into his and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Absolutely nothing, nothing at all; I’m going to make some tea, would you like some?”

  “Sure, I’ll come with you.” They walked arm and arm to the kitchen. “It’ll be a good budget Andrew,” Molly said, sitting at the large table, while her husband filled the kettle.

  He forced a grin in response. “That seems to be the consensus of opinion.”

  “Don’t you think so?”

  “Oh, I believe in it absolutely,” he reiterated for the second time that evening.

  “Actually, can I have hot chocolate, tea always makes me want to go to the loo.” She stood, took the canister out of the cupboard and handed to him. “So, if you’re happy, the PM is happy, Nigel is happy, and at least a good two thirds of the Party are going to be happy, what’s the problem?”

  “Nothing, there isn’t one, maybe I’m just on a bit of a downer, now the work is done…not that it’s done, but you know what I mean.”

  “I do, so…”

  “…so, I don’t know, maybe…maybe it’s because this budget is me. With others…” he shrugged, “…I allowed too many other influences in, and the timing was off. This year, it reflects everything I feel about politics, about what we, as a party, stand for.” He stopped to pour the boiling water into his mug. “It’s too personal, too important, I believe in everything that’s in there, and I need to ensure I get that message across.” He drained his teabag, threw it in the compost container and opened the fridge in search of milk. “Does that make sense?”

  “Of course, and it’s what makes you, and will continue to make you, a great politician because you…thank you,” Molly took her mug from him, “…because you care. Despite the rubbish that goes on, all around you, every day. The politics of politics, if you like, despite all that you still care and genuinely want to make a difference. It’s why I love you, Chancellor.”

  Andrew smiled and sat down beside her. “Maybe you should consider a career in politics, you always know how to say just the right thing.” He leaned over and kissed her, she tasted warm and chocolaty.

  “I do,” she smiled back at him, “it’s a gift.”

  Andrew laughed in response, a real laugh that lifted him enough to shed a little light onto his melancholy.

  “Besides,” Molly continued, “on this evenings news they’ve already announced what they expect the budget to contain. Apparently you’re going to raise the personal tax threshold, maintain the winter fuel payments, cut spending on the military and means test child benefit. Is that so Chancellor?”

  “I couldn’t possibly comment Mrs Proust,” he replied, laughing once more.

  “Really? Maybe I could think of a way to tease the information from you.”

  “Is that so?” Andrew replied. “Well, I have signed the official secrets act, so I don’t think it’ll be that easy to make me talk.”

  “Then…” Molly rose as she spoke, put down her cup and motioned for her husband to follow. “…I’ll just have to be very, very persuasive.”

  *****

  It was an early morning the following day, Andrew was grateful to have no lingering effects of too much scotch the night before, which in itself made him think he should cut down upon his intake. He’d dressed with even greater care than normal, earlier on in his career he’d made the mistake of ignoring Nigel’s advice and wearing a startlingly blue suit that went with nothing and clashed with everything. He then understood why politicians always wore such drab attire, boring it may be but it was also the best way to ensure the populace focused upon their message, and not what they wore when they delivered it. And today, it was definitely all about the message.

  “Let me know how it goes,” Molly said, placing a goodbye kiss on her husband’s cheek.

  “You know you could just watch it and see for yourself,” Andrew commented, even though he knew she wouldn’t, she couldn’t abide watching one opposition MP after another hurl insults at her husband.

  “Maybe, I’ll see. Oh, I almost forgot your mum and dad, and Josie phoned last night, to wish you luck.”

  “I’ll give them a ring back at some point.”

  “Okay,” she said, smoothing down his tie as she spoke.

  “Okay, see you later Mols,” he said, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Game face on Chancellor,” she replied.

  *****

  Andrew took a cautious sip of his tea, today it was Beth’s turn to wait on the cabinet and she was well known for being thrifty with the milk. Andrew had given up asking for, ‘just a drop more,’ because that was literally the amount she gave. Plus, it wasn’t just the scalding effects it had upon your mouth that was annoying, but judging how long you could dunk your digestive for was a nightmare, answer a question or lose your concentration at just the wrong moment and your hand was left holding nothing, as a biscuit like sludge sunk to the bottom of your cup. Today Andrew had decided to play it safe and allow the bourbons to pass him by, he did not want to risk a chocolate smudge on the budget papers, and he was pretty confident, given the day, that his opinion would be sought. Not that he would be making any grand announcements in front of his colleagues, they all knew the content of the famous red box it was, after all, an amalgamation of their work as a whole. No, what they had come together to discuss was how the public had reacted to their leaked announcements. As Molly had commented, the news the previous day had held all sorts of predictions as to what Andrew would say, the cabinet had met to discuss how those snippets of information had been received. It was a juggling act; each potentially unpopular move had to be balanced by an acceptable one. Anything that caused a disproportionate amount of hysteria, in the Republican Party’s view, could be shelved and quietly passed in a later bill.

  As Andrew himself had predicted, at countless cabinet meetings, the opinion polls showed the reduction in the top rate of income tax to be particularly unpopular with the populace, followed closely by the proposed increase in fuel prices.

  “Can we risk the bad press, the way the economy is, that’s all I’m saying,” commented the Education Secretary for the umpteenth time. Andrew did not like the minister, he found her routinely obstructive and too easily swayed by public opinion. He may have shared her middle ground politics, but not her quest to covet popularity.

  “Andrew,” the PM passed the comment along for him to answer.

  “Well, as you know, I myself argued against the proposed cut, but I think we’ve done enough elsewhere to offset any criticism. We have our counter argument, it will only affect a handful of the population, and we are lifting millions of people out of the taxation system at the other end.”

  “A policy I don’t believe will be popular with our traditional voters. Nevertheless I agree with the Chancellor, one takes the heat away from the other and, more importantly, we have our counter argument ready for any accusation that we are disproportionately favouring the well off,” the Foreign Secretary chipped in, which was, from him, a huge concession as he veered toward the far right of the party, however he was also a pragmatist and excellent at gauging the public mood. “I still believe we need more announcements on welfare reform,” he continued, “while the countries appetite is ripe for it.”

  “You know, as well as I, that we will be publishing a reform of the welfare system in a separate bill,” Blackthorn replied.

  “I know that, Prime Minister, but there is nothing wrong with preparing the ground.”

  Blackthorn rubbed his chin, as he was wont to do when thinking. “Andrew?”

  “It’
s not the time for going into more detail on welfare, but I agree, some sort of statement of intent would be advantageous.”

  “Fair enough,” Blackthorn nodded, “and it wouldn’t require major change to the budget speech, just the addition of a sentence or two. In fact I think it would fit in quite well, with a budget I believe not only encapsulates our message, but also public opinion.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Andrew said, as an aid scurried out of the room to put something together for consideration.

  “How did the voters react to the suggestion of a three pence rise in pump prices, was it as predicted?” the PM asked.

  “Pretty much,” the Home Secretary replied, “but the ground has been laid.”

  In actual fact Andrew had never had any intention of announcing a three pence rise on fuel, it would be set at two pence and delayed until the autumn. It was an often used tactic, and meant, by comparison, his actual announcement would seem more lenient. Hopefully, instead of a headline reading, Chancellor slams drivers yet again, in the morning papers, it would now merely merit a sub title elsewhere.

  “Right, well I think we’ve put as much of a positive spin as possible, on what is, by necessity, a hard budget. Are there any further comments upon the early polls?” Blackthorn asked.

  The cabinet, as a whole, was silent. The time for the right and left wing flanks of the Party to argue was over, and the economic path set once more. There would be no slowing down in the speed of the cuts needed or their severity, as called for by the opposition, but a further commitment to the pace of reform. As for Andrew, he’d championed neither extremes of the Republican Party, but had fallen somewhere between the two. In life and politics the middle ground was the one he believed suffered the most in the present climate. Politicians built careers on championing the right and left wing, while the middle classes were, in his opinion, often left to suffer in silence. It was neither fashionable nor newsworthy to focus upon them at present, a whole legion of savers who worked hard, and benefitted neither from great wealth nor suffered from poverty, but who’d seen their disposable income shrivel away. People like his parents and Molly’s, he thought ruefully. That’s where Andrew’s politics were rooted, and it was their corner he’d fought for.