“Yes,” Andrew said encouragingly.
“Under no circumstances are you to mention the words, ‘social housing programme,’ it is now and forever more to be referred to as, our plan for economic growth, no, better still, our successful plan for economic growth.”
The meeting turned into a three large brandy affair, Molly came to say goodnight and, obviously detecting the seriousness of their discussion, feigned not to comment upon its length when Andrew finally made it to bed; thirty minutes before he got back up to see to Elaine.
*****
Andrew did as suggested, exploited every opportunity to allude to the next instalment of welfare reform, and, in all honesty, it was easy for him to talk passionately about the subject because it was one in which he wholeheartedly believed. The social housing programme had never been about anything other than fairness and economics for Andrew, but once they had been dubbed benefit’s estates, his ethos had been lost amongst the spin. He’d seen the problem with the bedroom tax, the unfairness at its core, and the means of solving that problem had offered the potential for economic growth. As it happened he’d been right, things were starting to turn around but that success had been trampled in the stampede of condemnation the policy now attracted. It seemed the populace would rather sacrifice the possible return to some sort of financial stability, than have the undeserved pandered to in any way. Andrew could understand that, but that perception was merely the by-product of a positive economic strategy.
“Big day’s finally here,” Molly said, as she popped the teapot on the table, well-away from tiny hands.
Those same small hands were trying to take the spoon from her father’s grasp as he struggled to hit her mouth with a scoop of strawberry baby rice. “I wouldn’t say it’s a…oops, can you pass me clean bib Mols? I think we’ve pretty much got rice all over this one…everywhere but in my girl’s mouth, yes it is Ellie,”
“Elaine. Has she actually eaten any yet?”
“Well, we’re trying but somebody keeps grabbing the spoon, yes she does,” Andrew replied, his gaze on Elaine. “And what did you say before?”
“The big day, the big showdown, finally here,” Molly said once more.
“Oh, don’t re…oops, come here you messy tot…anyway…I…I’ve forgotten what I was talking about.”
“Come here, let me feed Elaine, you need to start focusing on today Prime Minister, and you need to drink some tea and eat some toast before Nigel gets here,” Molly said, taking Elaine’s breakfast things from him.
“Thanks Mols, I’ll be pleased when today’s done, things have gotten blown way out of proportion; I’m not sure Nigel was entirely right about this one.”
Molly feigned shock. “Are you sure, the great Nigel Purser?”
“Very funny, but I don’t think this week has been a shining example of British politics,” Andrew responded. In fact it had been a mess because every time he’d mentioned the forthcoming welfare proposals, the Chancellor or Kate Gardener, the DWP minister, had found an opportunity to do likewise; so, by the end of the week political commentators had started keeping a tally, to see who managed to refer to it the most. That had been bad enough, but The Pocket Watch had then begun a competition, to see which MP could make the most tenuous link; members of the public had been ask to nominate occasions and then vote on the shortlist. Andrew was gratified to see that Gardener was the far away leader at the moment, having asked a young adult on one of the department’s flagship training schemes, where he lived and if his parent’s worked, an all-time low Andrew felt. At the end of the day, it harmed them all, leaving the Unitary Party open to accusations of deep schism, and Andrew’s leadership qualities to be questioned. And yet it did not stop, the niggling would go on until the bitter end, internal arguments had raged as to the nature of the days announcement, would Andrew introduce the Chancellor or not? Would he also field questions or leave that to Chase? In the end a compromise had to be reached, Andrew would make a short statement, of no more than five minutes, and Chase would lead the question and answer session afterwards. Needless to say, Nigel had worked long and hard on the perfect opening statement, it had never before been so important to pack as much meaning into a limited amount of time.
And, all too quickly, that time had arrived; after a week of Party folly, a note of gravitas was desperately needed. Andrew rose to his feet and stepped up to the lectern, laid his notes down in front of him and then slowly and deliberately allowed his gaze to wander over the opposition MPs, before turning and facing his own party. In that split second he could see the looks of incomprehension and hear a ripple of consternation.
“We have done the British public an injustice this week, we have focused upon our own internal niggles at a time when our countries wellbeing should always, always be the only thing at the forefront of our minds, and for that I apologise…” The looks of disbelief grew, what the hell was he doing? Admitting their failings, their divisions as a Party, openly and without being asked? Andrew allowed his gaze to finally fall upon his Chancellor, suck on that Chase, before turning to the Opposition.
“…but no more because we have emerged stronger and more dedicated for it; the British public deserve more and they shall get it…”
He’d like to see Chase and his supporters’ mount a coup after that, they’d just look sullen and pathetic. Nigel’s judgement, he felt, was back on form.
“…our successful plan for economic growth has seen us alone shaking off the shackles of financial stagnation, and it is in the process of being adopted across Europe. We are bucking the trend because we have all worked together, sharing the burden of rebuilding our economy. It hasn’t been easy, and I know the hardworking men and women of our society have wondered that they may have been asked to contribute too much, have thought others to be having an easier time of it. And so today, the Chancellor shall be unveiling new proposals on welfare that will ensure it always pays to be in work, and that those families doing the right thing are not suffering in comparison. Everyone has a role to play; we’re all in this together.”
Andrew sat back down. Short, direct, business like in its tone, it took a second before any reaction to his speech occurred, and then the applause began, from his back benchers it rolled forward amid very little noise from the opposition, what could they object to? In principle they’d echoed Andrew’s sentiments themselves, and so had been forced to remain largely silent; to the general public, watching a brief snippet on the news that evening, it would look as if Andrew commanded cross-party support. Well done Nigel.
Andrew sat and nodded along to the Chancellor’s proposals, benefits capped at twenty-eight thousand for a family, eighteen thousand for a single person, disability living allowance to be scrapped and replaced with Personal Health Plans, with TOST to take over the assessment, tighter penalties for those on JSA who were not deemed to be trying hard enough to find employment, and a new way for claimants to receive their benefits which was designed to make them more ready for a life off welfare. Had they been tough enough to restore the voter’s confidence in the government? Andrew hoped so, he returned to his office with Nigel and turned on News 24.
First up was a young mother, she had four children from three different fathers and Andrew could have kissed the interviewer for finding her; at the present time it was predicted she received upwards of thirty-thousand pounds in benefits. She was filmed sitting in the garden of her newly built house, bewailing the fact that she would never be able to survive on her reduced income. Next up a couple, both working, with four children themselves, present income twenty-two thousand pounds a year; they welcomed the Chancellor’s measures but believed they did not go far enough. An unemployed, single young man was interviewed, who wondered who these people were in receipt of eighteen thousand a year, as he received only a third of that amount, lived with his parents still, and feared tougher sanctions against JSA claimants. But his was a lone voice in a litany of those who felt hard done by and those who felt the measur
es were long overdue. Andrew smiled at Nigel, who nodded back, they’d done enough.
Chapter fifty-one
One week later
“I’ve just been informed-”
“I know,” Nigel interrupted Andrew.
“Leaving aside how you know before I know, what the hell are these people playing at? I mean are they determined to make the rest of the populace resent them even more?” Andrew paced as he spoke. “I mean how…how did they ever think a march against the new benefits regime and TOST testing was ever going to be anything more than the most ridiculously, irresponsible thing ever? The whole idea of paying benefits monthly is to encourage people to act responsibly, force them if necessary, to budget and plan for their lives, their families life. Something those in work know only too well. Do they expect us to support them financially, emotionally and socially? Christ if more people took responsibilities for their actions, refrained from popping out another child every two seconds, then we wouldn’t be in mess we are now. I mean, are they aware of the current economic situation?”
Nigel shrugged his shoulders. “On the plus side it will harden a few die hard liberals against them, and path the way for future welfare reform.”
“But still,” Andrew shook his head, “what are they thinking? The police are saying it’s highly likely there will now be counter-marches and, in their view, there is a significant risk of unrest on the day.”
Again Nigel shrugged. “I’m not sure what you want me to say, it’s ill-conceived at best and at worst, well…” another shrug.
“And they charge us with being disconnected to real life, maybe they should take a look at their own actions. And who is, or what is, Unite, because they’re the ones that have notified of their intention to march? And for god’s sake don’t shrug at me again. Damn nerve, Unite of all names, it’s like they are deliberately seeking to be confrontational.”
“They probably are, Unite are a protest group borne from the successful economic recovery programme, which has spread to encompass other successful econ-”
“For god’s sake Nigel, you can call them benefit’s estates when we’re alone,” Andrew snapped.
“Yes, sorry Prime Minister,” Nigel said, his voice low and even.
“Arghhhh,” Andrew groaned in exasperation, before sinking to his chair. “I’m sorry mate, it’s just, everything was settling down, and now this…and I have a bad feeling about it.”
“Maybe it’ll go off smoothly, the police will be taking every precaution I’m sure, and, as I said, maybe it will be to our advantage in the long run.”
“Well, we only have a week to wait and find out,” Andrew said, resignation tinging his tone.
“Well, as you know Prime Minister, a week is a long time in politics,” this time Nigel shrugged and smirked as he spoke.
*****
One week later
“The Police commissioner is here Prime Minister.”
“Good, show him in,” Andrew replied, his gaze never leaving the screen before him; he was hooked by its hypnotic vision and couldn’t help but watch.
The men huddled together, it was a tight circle, born of tension and anger; Andrew stood beside the Home Secretary, Nigel and the Chancellor, his palms painful where his nails dug into the flesh. The Commissioner joined them, at only fifty-eight he was the youngest appointed to the position, but his grey, rapidly thinning hair made him look at least a decade older. He saw his role as that of a police man first and a political conduit second, the role of Commissioner was infinitely more stable than that of government, whose politicians came and went dependent upon their suitability at the time. So, he would listen and advise but neither flatter nor shy away from contentious issues.
“What can you tell me?” Andrew’s question was directed at Commissioner Lowston, his voice tight with restrained anger.
“Probably not much more than you’ve witnessed yourself, it-”
“Commissioner,” Andrew interrupted him, “the television coverage is not suggesting the situation to be under control, I’m expecting you to tell me that it is and then I’d like you to explain why I’m watching images of people knocked from their wheelchairs by mounted police.”
Lowston, straightened his shoulders. “Well, we’ve all been working under the budget imposed upon us Prime Minister.”
It was almost a race to see who snarled first.
“Get to the point Lowston,” the Home Secretary reprimanded, she was old school enough to expect him to toe the line and refrain from voicing too much of an opinion. Where Lowston had a rather large middle and was of average height, Sally Parks was tall and painfully thin. She also tended to slouch her shoulders, in that apologetic air very tall people have as they communicated with others of a less majestic height. She was of a similar age to Lowston, but her wild curly hair and small glasses, perched on a nose of some distinction, gave her a professorial air; she could also be extremely patronising and condescending in equal measures.
“The march began on time from the meeting area, St John’s Green, people having been bussed in from the bene…the err…”
“Just say it,” Andrew shouted this time and he felt every ones breath halt for a split second.
“…from the benefit’s estate. The march route had been established, with police officers stationed at potential flash points, notably Green Street where a counter-demonstration was planned. The march passed peacefully, culminating in a rally at Hilda Square-”
Andrew cut across his account once more. “Which is where the shit hit the fan.”
“Err, yes, once the initial protesters had gathered in Hilda Square, two large groups emerged from adjacent streets…and, well, charged in.”
“Two large groups your well organised operation had failed to spot,” Andrew stated, his gaze now upon the Commissioner. “Leading to this,” he gestured at the screen behind him. “I mean, what the…?” Andrew hit the side of his desk with his fist as he walked away, he needed coffee, or maybe he’d had too much, but he needed something.
“In our defence Prime Minister, I believe these groups amassed on the tube, exiting at designated spots and then merged together, it was a very well organised attack.”
“Which you have spectacularly failed to get under control,” the Home Secretary retorted.
“So we know the counter-protest was well organised, but do we know if it is in fact a reaction to the original march or part of it?” Nigel asked.
The Home Secretary and Chancellor gave him a look, Nigel ignored it.
“No, they seemed to rush in amongst the rally and…well, it’s almost as if they were using the other protesters as a human shield,” the Commissioner said, his voice betraying the fact he knew he’d screwed up, but he wasn’t quite sure how.
“That we can see,” Andrew snapped, “but did it not dawn on somebody, somewhere, within your hierarchy of power, that if you used horses and riot police to disperse the group, those disabled people amongst them would not be able to get out of the way?”
“The interlopers were throwing cans, bottles, stones, threatening police lines,” the Commissioner’s voice sounded pathetic, almost pleading.
“There were people in fucking wheel chairs,” Andrew shouted, he saw the Commissioner wince at his language and then try to re-group himself.
“What would you have me do Prime Minister, allow the mob to trash the high street, set fire to buildings? Would we have been justified in the actions we took then?”
Andrew forced himself to stop, control his emotions before he spoke; when he did so his voice was level once more. He would not have the gossip mongers of government saying, when the time came to act he had lost control. “What is your plan now Commissioner?”
“We withdrew far enough away to let those who wished to disperse do so. My officers have worked to protect the innocent protesters as they attempt to leave, we’ve even gone in and carried people out if necessary. We’re confident we’ve now isolated the main trouble makers.”
“They are still in Hilda Square. Unfortunately in moving our line back, they’ve taken advantage, several shops are alight and it’s too dangerous to allow the fire brigade in.”
“And the staff?” Andrew asked, his gaze now drawn back to the screen.
“We don’t know at this time.”
“Shit,” Andrew shook his head as he spoke. “I mean look at it,” he gestured at the screen. “Right, now what?” he asked, throwing the comment out to anyone who wished to contribute.
“I think, if the Commissioner is satisfied the ring leaders have been isolated, we need to take control, swiftly and decisively,” the Home Secretary said.
“Commissioner?” Andrew asked.
“I agree, we need to go back in, disperse the trouble makers before night fall because if we don’t the likelihood is they’ll be joined by other opportunists,” the Commissioner replied.
Andrew scrubbed his face with his hand. “Nigel?”
“I agree,” Nigel replied.
“Give the order Commissioner, I want half hourly reports,” Andrew stated, he felt suddenly tired, wanted it done and gone. “We’ll meet back here in an hour gentlemen. Oh, Nigel could you hang back a moment.”
There it was again, that look of disapproval between the three as they left, well screw them, Andrew needed a friendly face.
“What a mess Nigel, Christ.”
“Yes, coffee?”
“I probably shouldn’t but, yes please,” Andrew replied.
Nigel took the coffee jug, opened the door and no doubt handed it to Andrew’s secretary.
“Do they have to keep playing that same shot over and over again,” Andrew bemoaned, pointing at the screen. It passed in slow motion once more, a horse pushing through the crowds, it’s hooves catching on a wheelchair, overturning it, spilling it’s occupant out onto the road, only inches away from its hind legs. And it wasn’t the only shot, police pushing into the group starting a macabre chain reaction of a wheelchair user knocking into someone with a stick, falling onto someone with crutches. It was like a wave of infirmity, flattened before a relentless force.
An Ordinary Working Man Page 39
