“You had better be right about that.”
Silence, Sir George the first to continue speaking, “Sit down; I want a full report on the finalised content of the Welfare Bill.”
Chapter thirty-seven
Sir George
Sir George wasted a perfectly splendid single malt by knocking it back in one go, the clash of the glass as he placed it back on the table reverberated around the room, causing several club members to raise their heads in disapproval. It was as if he’d shouted and screamed in a library, his actions were simply not appropriate to the ambience of his surroundings. Porter materialised at his side.
“Is anything amiss Sir George?”
“No, Porter,” he forced calm into his voice, “everything is fine.”
“Another whisky perhaps Sir George?”
“Yes, I rather think so.”
Damn that Purser, he was so sure, so arrogant of his career trajectory. Oh, Sir George knew the verbal exchange between the Chancellor and he meant nothing, but he would have been gratified to see at least a little uncertainty in the man’s manner. He had the unique ability of being able to crawl underneath Sir George’s very skin, and irritate every second he was in his presence. Of course a certain confidence was required in their work, an absolute belief in one’s role, but Purser took it beyond that. He gave the impression of believing himself to be irreplaceable, to be pivotal to their success, and Sir George had to struggle, every time they met, not to put him further in his place. To tell him that if he failed there were plenty of others who would succeed, that Andrew’s position as PM was not essential, it was not the end game, in fact it made very little difference if the Republicans or People’s Party won the next election because either way their plan would prevail. Although, he conceded, it would run a little more smoothly with Andrew in office
“Your drink Sir.”
“Thank you Porter.”
Sir George placed the glass quietly on the table this time and settled his body further back into the leather, wing backed chair. He would not allow that man to ruin the rest of his afternoon; he would read the paper and play a spot of bridge before returning home. Nancy had invited Emily Purser for dinner that evening, Sir George would have preferred not to have the added demand of entertaining but Sir James had been a good friend, and Emily was at least tolerable, unlike her blasted son.
*****
“George, you’re late,” Nancy admonished, as she helped her husband out of his raincoat.
“Business to take care of, anyway Emily’s not due for another hour.”
“She’ll be here in half an hour, which you would know if you listened, and how you can have business to take care of when you retired years ago is beyond me George.”
Sir George bit back the rather terse remark trying to burst forth and instead forced his mouth into some semblance of a smile. “Quite my Dear, now if that’s all I’d better change for dinner.”
“Oh George sometimes…”
Whatever the sometimes was he was mercifully spared as his wife continued muttering to herself as she wandered off to the kitchen. Sir George took the opportunity to pour himself a whisky before disappearing up the stairs to dress for dinner.
He reappeared just in time to answer the front door.
“Hello my dear Emily, you look well.”
He’d long since found that to be the best opening remark. If you asked people how they were, they were inclined to tell you, and that could take a very long time indeed.
“Thank you George, how very kind.”
Sir George had just removed her coat when his wife walked into the hallway.
“Good evening Nancy, something smells absolutely delicious.”
“Oh, just a little something, beef slowly cooked in a red wine jus, it’s nothing,” Nancy replied.
Sir George steered the pair toward the lounge. “Can I offer you something Emily, a sherry perhaps?”
“That would be lovely, thank you. How are you getting on with your knitting Nancy? I must say my socks are rather full of holes, still I suppose they will be better than nothing.”
“I’ve finished three pairs.”
Sir George could testify to that, every evening for a week he’d been forced to listen to the steady clatter of needles, and he was damned if he could see why a child in Africa would need a pair of socks to run around the dirt in.
“Good for you Nancy. Jessie seems to think we may be moving onto gloves next, I shall make mine fingerless, as they’ll probably end up that way anyway.”
The women chortled, as Sir George wondered which charity would be lucky enough to receive the rather dubious end products.
Knitting, crochet and needlecraft formed the main topics of conversation over the oxtail consume. By the time the main course arrived Sir George was having difficulty even pretending any interest. But, he had to acknowledge, it was also a comfort, it was a reminder that real life, or rather his way of life, continued on, that women still joined the W.A. and men still played cricket on a weekend. That the values held by his family, for generations before him, were still recognised. Today’s petty dignitaries may think the power rested with them, but the real influence had lain within the control of the same families for hundreds of years. He tuned back in as the word ‘Retreat,’ jostled him back to the present.
“It’s for the best Nancy, the woman had gotten out of hand-”
“Sorry to interrupt Emily, but who had gotten out of hand?” he asked.
His wife gave him a glance that conveyed her suspicion that he had, yet again, not been listened; Sir George chose to avoid her gaze.
“Hope Wilkes, she’d virtually taken over the W.A,” Emily replied.
“Well I don’t think it was-”
“Nonsense Nancy,” Emily interrupted, “would any of you even have heard of Retreat if it hadn’t been for her?”
So, Hope Wilkes had found her match in Emily Purser, good for her. Sir George had been most alarmed to see Hope’s influence over the W.A. spread and had even forbade Nancy from mentioning her name, and that of Retreat, in the house. Nancy had assumed he’d put his foot down in a most unreasonable fashion, but he had in fact been very rational in his directive. If they could bug the Offices of Government, then his house would be an easy target by comparison.
“So, she’s gone then?” he asked Emily.
“Oh yes, and her charity with it, I don’t know how you’ve all put up with it for all these months. I mean, and I’m sure you’ll agree Sir George, there is also such a thing as the undeserving poor.”
Sir George agreed whole heartedly, he didn’t think there was any other kind.
“Well, we felt in the economic climate…” Nancy gave a half-hearted attempt to justify their past actions.
“My dear Nancy, I’m not in any way admonishing you and your group. Hope had a way of commanding attention, and taking advantage of your kind hearts.”
“Quite so,” Sir George agreed.
“I mean to say,” Emily continued, “just one visit was enough for me. Can you believe it George, mothers barely past childhood themselves, with two and three screaming brats hanging onto them? And the way they talk, oh my.” Emily took a sip of wine, as if to compose herself. “They’ve lost the ability to communicate beyond that of a sharp command…shut up, stand still…and the infants are all running around, taking no notice of any requests for them to stop. And we’re giving then food parcels indeed, it’s like State sponsored, social suicide.”
“They weren’t all like that Emily, to be fair-”
Sir George almost felt the need to jump to his wife’s defence, she looked so completely chastised, but then she shouldn’t allow herself to be so easily led, unless of course it was by Emily Purser.
“To be fair,” Emily looked as if she could positively faint with the horror, “there is nothing fair about procreating with abandon when you can neither instruct nor feed your offspring, and then have the gall to ask the rest of us tax paying citizens to s
upport them.”
Nancy sighed and admitted defeat.
“Quite so Emily, and of course that’s the thing isn’t it, the more brats they have the more money they get, not to mention that they are further congratulated for their economic irresponsibility by also being housed at the taxpayer’s expense,” George added
“More wine George?” Nancy had risen and stood ready to top up his glass, but he recognised the tactics of distraction, and refused to be waylaid from his tirade.
“Thank you dear, you see everyone in the country is expected to pull together during these hard economic times, yet the, ‘so called poor,’ are the only group that expects their lot to remain the same. They still demand their flat screen TV and foreign holiday as a right, and yet contribute nothing to this country’s economy. We shouldn’t be afraid to demand that they do their bit, after all the poor, by their very definition have less to lose.”
“Quite so dear,” Nancy placed a hand on his shoulder as she spoke, this time he acquiesced to her unspoken plea.
“Any plans for the summer Emily?” he dutifully enquired.
Chapter thirty-eight
Sir George opened his window and removed his tie, as he looked out at a sea of terracotta roofs. He had to concede that Florence was an attractive city, infinitely preferable to Venice. He simply couldn’t see anything to merit the gushing adoration it tended to attract. Nancy loved the place, found the streets quaint and the architecture divine, Sir George merely found it irritating. One had to negotiate a rabbit warren of small passageways to get anywhere, its retail market seemed to be monopolised by Venetian masks and Murano glassware, and one couldn’t enjoy an espresso in St Mark’s Square without being assaulted by pigeons, or the shrieks of others as they stood like a scarecrow and allowed the filthy vermin to feed off them. No, Florence was better, cleaner, more cosmopolitan. Plus, it was important, he supposed, to at least pretend that Italy and Spain had something to contribute to their little group, and thus have the occasional meet upon their soil. He just wished they wouldn’t seize such opportunities to flaunt their nationality.
It was going to be an interesting meet, the Frenchman and German had both been replaced with new candidates and Sir George couldn’t help but wonder as to why. Of course, they may have been promoted and reached Shangri La, but he sincerely hoped not. The thought of the Frenchman in particular, rising in the ranks ahead of him, had Sir George reaching for the whisky decanter. He could just imagine his sanctimonious, everyman smirk on the other side of the monitors. No, Sir George preferred to think they’d outlived their usefulness and been moved sideways into retirement, which was a possibility when one considered both he and the German had been replaced at the same time. Perhaps they’d gotten too big for their proverbial boots; he didn’t chose to dwell upon what that might mean.
At least he now understood, or at least thought he did, their increasing desire to keep Britain close. For the last six months the stalwarts of the Republican Party had sought to distance themselves from further economic entanglement to Europe. Blackthorn had even promised an in/out referendum on the matter, partly to keep his back benchers in line and partly as a bargaining chip for use when negotiating Britain’s contribution to the EU budget. It had caused a lot of division in the Republican Party and raised the ever present question of his ability to carry on as leader, and that of course was what it was meant to do. Although Sir George would have preferred the timing to have been about six months later, more time to raise Andrew’s prominence. Many would see his power surge up the ranks as too soon, would think he lacked the experience, which was immaterial because the CV of those controlling him spanned generations. Nevertheless, Blackthorn may have to be helped to weather the storm, for the time being anyway.
Still, the Frenchman and German must have known about the spectre of a referendum ahead of time, which meant they were obviously running men in the PM’s inner circle. Sir George wasn’t concerned, as he presumed the relationship to be reciprocated. Besides, Britain’s membership of the EU was irrelevant in terms of its political, economic and social relationship. It was merely a label for the populace and dull politicians to fret over. He glanced at his watch, he still had thirty minutes until the meet, perhaps he should head down and enjoy a leisurely cup of coffee. Italy was the only country that could persuade Sir George to abandon his tea, for a short while anyway.
The meeting room was fit for purpose, with high ceilings and ornate marble flooring; it was light and airy with shutters thrown open to the world. A faint hum of traffic and the rhythm of speech floated into the periphery of one’s consciousness. Sir George noted it all, and then turned his attention to the Frenchman and German. It was right they had arrived early and rose to greet the others, arm outstretched. If they’d planned to be the last to arrive that would have been taken as a signal for their supposed dominance in the group, and there was, Sir George thought, no need to ruffle any feathers yet.
The Frenchman was small, with cropped dark hair and rather closed features; he looked to be in his mid-sixties. The German was slightly taller, rather rotund and florid. Sir George placed him around sixty-five. Although, truth be told he was hopeless at guessing people’s age and whenever one of Nancy’s dreary friends asked him to do just that, he always deducted ten years in order to be safe.
Sir George shook hands with the new comers as the Italian walked into the room, he’d arrived last, as was his prerogative as host. The introduction of new members was always a difficult one, group dynamics tended to be stable for long periods of time, and so no-one was ever quite sure of how to interpret their arrival. Did it herald renewed vigour or a play for more power? Or was it simply time for new blood as the old moved onward and upward? Yet, Sir George was sure that a double replacement was a pretty rare thing, so what did that mean? Well, they would soon find out. He took his place at the table, it was round, a play for pretended equality by the Italian, he reached for the coffee jug, then decided his palate was ready for tea after all.
“Good morning Gentlemen, I hope you all slept well,” the Italian opened the meeting. Everyone grunted some sort of affirmation.
“You have the agenda in front of you, and I suggest we take each point in turn as to their position on the list.”
That was a given, the list having been supplied to them from above.
“Once we’ve covered those points,” the Italian continued, “we can move onto any other business.”
Again, a general murmur of agreement passed around the group. The Frenchman was the first to be asked to report back.
“May I take the opportunity to say once more, how honoured I am to be here, and that I look forward to a long and fruitful relationship.”
Preliminaries over, he began.
“As you know we have successfully re-instated a more right wing government, and President. It has had the desired effect in the area I represent. We already have large centres for holding immigrants, and we have initiated a building programme to create more. This has sparked a lot of protest and tension on the streets-”
“Isn’t it a little too soon for that?” Sir George interrupted, “That doesn’t mesh with our original time table.”
The Frenchman cleared his throat, “It was the natural progression from the position we found ourselves to be in. Perhaps it is time to move the programme along a little faster, maybe the problem is that you aren’t keeping up with social demand, not that we have jumped ahead of ourselves.”
“No, we’re on target, it isn’t possible to move any faster,” Sir George stated.
“Sometimes things escalate and you have to react, you have to-”
“You have to be in control.”
“I agree, we stick to the original timetable,” the German said, the Italian and Spaniard nodded. The monitors remained silent.
“Just so, that’s not a problem,” the Frenchman finally conceded.
So, Sir George mused, the German had not supported his closest ally, very interesting,
although in what way he didn’t know.
Each took it in turns to report. Sir George often imagined those on the next layer of power to be like a switchboard operator you used to see in films of old, wrestling with flashing lights and plugs as they tried to keep up with the flow of information from their various contacts. It was an image that amused him, even though it was highly unlikely to be true.
The next item open for discussion was Greece, had they too jumped ahead, barely a night passed when people weren’t seen protesting on the streets of Athens, anger and despair spilling over at the austerity cuts imposed upon the country. But, it was decided that as they seemed to protest over everything and anything, their continued disruption could be relied upon.
They then came to the, any other business section, the most revealing part as far as Sir George was concerned.
The Italian opened the proceedings. “I have been asked to float a suggestion,” he cleared his throat before speaking once more, “to see if it’s possible to extend our group to a fifth member, a Papal representative.”
The word, ‘representative,’ had not been fully formed before four of the monitors began to flash. Sir George bit back his knee-jerk response; it was not up to him to take such a momentous decision, instead he rose, and along with the Spaniard, Frenchman and German, excused himself and headed back to his room. The response from on high was short and absolute -‘no.’ He would have been extremely surprised if it had been anything other, religion had not played any role in their affairs for several hundred years, and there was no benefit to be had in re-admitting it. No, the most pressing point was, were the Italians merely acting upon their own desire, or rather more seriously, had the Papacy approached them. If so there had been a serious breach in security somewhere.
Upon returning to the conference room, Sir George was not surprised to see everyone in attendance, they’d obviously received the same emphatic response.
“Gentlemen?” the Italian spread his arms wide as he spoke, inviting feedback.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 23
