He ordered a pot of tea, two cups and a round of toast, he’d already eaten but felt he deserved a treat and the club had the most divine handmade jams and marmalades.
The troubles in the City were more than a world away, the people an alien race
The butler announced Nigel, and then melted into the background.
“I ordered you tea,” Sir George said, the waiter, who knew his schedule, had enquired as to whether or not he should bring coffee for his guest, but he’d said no, today was a day for tea.
“Thank you Sir George,” Nigel replied, no hint of disappointment in his eyes.
Silence, Sir George liked that, you could tell a lot about a man simply by observing whether or not he felt the need to fill that space; that open vacuum, which sucked in the unworthy. Nigel did not speak, nor did he look ill at ease. He appeared to be a man who had the whole day free and nothing to worry, yet Sir George knew he would be anxious to return, Andrew would not want him out of his sight for long.
The toast finished Sir George stood, holding his teacup and saucer, Nigel did the same.
“Would you like the rest of your tea taken into a private room Sir George?” the waiter asked, stepping forward at just the right moment.
“Yes,” Sir George replied, just one word, no thanks or please, waiters were there to serve, not to be complimented upon how well they did so. Sir George felt the curious gaze of onlookers as he walked, Nigel’s name whispered between bent heads. They knew to whom Nigel gave his advice, so what was he doing meeting privately with Sir George, today of all days?
They entered their usual room and Sir George waited until they were alone, the door closed upon straining ears before he spoke. “Well, how is our boy doing?”
“He’s coping, just. The press gave him a hard time this morning for, ‘abandoning,’ the benefit’s estates. They’re accusing him of prioritising the have’s over the have not’s.”
“Perfectly true, of course, and tonight, if the same happens again, what will he do then?” Sir George said.
“That would be the question of the day,” Nigel stated.
Sir George gave a show of ruminating over the problem, although of course he already knew what he was required to say.
“What about the army?”
“The Home Secretary has put forward that suggestion, it was not well received but that was before last night’s chaos” Nigel replied.
“And if the Home Secretary were to suggest it again?”
“I’m not sure, it’s a momentous step.”
“Yes, but one I would like our boy to take,” Sir George stated.
“I see,” Nigel spoke slowly, and nodded his head.
Sir George knew he was seeking some clarification of his position, and to be fair, he could give it but, he just liked provoking Purser. It was his face, Sir George decided, more than his manner that irritated the hell out of him; which is why he had never been destined for front line politics.
“Andrew’s continued leadership is no longer an issue, he won’t face any challenges for the position because of up and coming escalation in violence, no one will want to preside over that volatile situation. No, whether he is loved or loathed, he will keep us on our course.”
Sir George could see the words almost forming on Nigel’s lips, what course?
“Andrew will find himself under immense strain in the following days, you need to prop him up, keep him strong and ensure he reacts to the unrest in the correct way,” Sir George added.
“Of course,” Nigel nodded smoothly as he spoke, as if he were receiving a knighthood from the Queen, cocky devil.
“We want the army on the streets, we want the violence to escalate, in fact, what we really want…” Sir George paused, let it hang on his lips so that he could enjoy the sound and feel of saying it to someone, after all the years of planning, “what we really want, my dear boy, is…well, maybe that is a conversation for another day.” He couldn’t do it, wanted to keep the truth for a while longer, hold onto it until that point when the whole world would know. If Nigel were irritated by his obvious change of heart he didn’t show it.
“Anyway, but for now your orders are simple, create chaos, anarchy even, and the more bloody the situation, the better.”
Sir George turned and left the room, he knew that Nigel would correctly take that as a sign he’d been dismissed, it had been a good meeting. He sat back down in his armchair and sipped yet more tea, he should slow down, his bladder was not what it used to be. By god, in his day, he would have been on the streets, infiltrating local gangs, stirring them to violence, leading them into the city and estates. He wondered if they knew what they were helping to create, these…spies in amongst the protesters, or were they merely men for hire, although no, surely not, because how could one ensure their silence? No they too must be men of breeding, more suited to action than intellect, but of pivotal importance to the plan nevertheless. Without them violence could never have been guaranteed, and guaranteed it must be.
In a way, Sir George mused, it was depressingly easy to stir the proletariat to riot, but then he had always believed them to be a slave to their baser instincts. No, the real challenge came in keeping them motivated, to make sure those on benefits didn’t display their usual apathy and slink off back to their beds and widescreen TVs. They had to be united, not only with each other, but across the world, a great mass of seething scum, leeching the very life force from the planet. They deserved nothing better than the fate planned for them, those who worked would no longer be prepared to finance their lethargy; those planted within the vigilante groups were stirring them to action, they were fighting back.
Chapter fifty-five
Five months later – November 2014
“Did he have anything to add then?” Mark Bailey enquired as Sue got into the car, his voice suggested he was not expecting miracles.
“He did actually, he said he thinks it’s my facet joints that have deteriorated,” Sue replied.
“He said what?” The sound of her dad’s disbelief merely matched her own.
“Yes, he’s going to give me a diagnostic facet joint injection, to check they are the problem and then take it from there. He actually read my MRI scan results, the very first one, from six years ago, and said they’d mentioned the joints twice which indicated they could be the problem.
“But Dr Lambert’s seen those results,” her dad stated.
“I know, but he just dismissed the results of degeneration as being in line with my age.”
“And it’s not?” her dad sort clarification.
“Dr Sorge thinks not, hence the injection to find out.”
“But Dr Lambert has had those results for the past three years,” her dad said.
“I know, I just can’t believe it,” Sue remarked, her mind felt blank, unable to process this new, and totally unexpected, piece of information
“I always said that bloke was a waste of space.”
“I know dad, and I’ve always agreed with you, but there was never anyone else to see; as soon as I knew there was an alternative, I refused to see Dr Lambert again.”
“I know, I know, I’m not suggesting you’ve not pushed matters as far as you could, but three years he’s had those results and done nothing, three years. That’s six years in total, six years of being dismissed because a bloody doctor, a doctor mind you, couldn’t understand, or didn’t read, the results of your scan. Well I’m flaming annoyed and your mother will be too.”
“I know,” Sue repeated. She had nothing to add, she was too stunned to be angry and surely she should be? A dose of justifiable indignation should be rattling through her system, but she felt absolutely nothing.
“Will that diagnosis and the one of M.E. be enough for you to claim ESA?” her dad asked.
Sue had visited the rheumatologist the week before who referred her back to the M.E. clinic, a full circle from those early days. But this time Sue had known herself, the gut wrenching tiredness that made wa
lking from lounge to kitchen a seemingly impossible feat, the bouts of nausea, IBS, yes, this time she had known. After all those months in the early years fighting to prove she didn’t have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Sue had now recognised that she did. Not then, it had only developed over the last few years and it was probably the never ending fight against the system that had caused it.
She felt like the parents she’d seen at school, always seeking a label for their kid’s condition, and at the time she’d not understood, thought the symptoms were the same with or without the official nod. But now she got it, because not knowing made you feel like a fraud, knowing seemed to justify your condition. Now you could say you had something, a named something, instead of a list of ailments. And, of course, it made a huge difference when dealing with welfare, a diagnosis meant a little more defiance against their damning air.
“No.” Sue shook her head as if to confirm her certainty.
“The Government has made it so impossible to claim. I’ll get no points on the mobility because they’ll always come back with, use a wheelchair.”
“But how do they expect you to work when you can’t walk, stand or sit for very long, and then there’s the exhaustion on top of that; you’d never manage a day,” her dad persisted.
“I doubt I’d manage half, but the government doesn’t care, you know what it’s like dad,” Sue said, she felt her mood deflate at the mention of the Unitary party, because the situation for those on welfare was becoming nigh on intolerable, and not everyone had the support of friends and family around them.
*****
“You must be angry,” Rachel said, “christ I would be, I mean that’s got to be negligence, surely?”
Sue sat opposite Rachel and Kay, in a traditional pub that served hearty food and plenty of it. She’d had to cancel the last three times they were supposed to meet, too exhausted to move from her couch, so this time she’d determined to come even though she now wished to be home. That was the thing, she looked forward to going out and then the minute she arrived desperately wanted to be back home resting.
She’d just told them of Dr Sorge’s diagnosis.
“I’m not, I-”
“But it’s like you’ve had six wasted years,” Rachel continued, interrupting Sue. “I mean if they’d intervened earlier you might have saved your job.”
“Maybe, well, I don’t know about that but there are so many positive things that have come out of the last six years, dismissing it as wasted time just doesn’t feel right.”
“What sort of positives?” Kay asked, she was rubbing the top of her baby bump as she spoke; she still had eight weeks to go but she was already huge, prompting lots of jokes about twins.
“I’ve made new friends, fulfilled an ambition to have a book published, even though they’re just erotic e-books, I’ve reconnected with old acquaintances, become more patient, and discovered Buddhism,” Sue said, and she meant it. She’d been on another course all about chronic pain, where she had been asked to write down the pros and cons of living with that pain and Sue had been surprised to realise that there were many more things in her pros list than her cons list. It had been a good visual reminder of just how lucky she was.
“Will it help with your benefits?” Kay asked.
“No, I shouldn’t think so, the Government have made the criteria so tight you have to be almost on your death bed to get anything,” Sue stated.
“Did you see that family on the news the other night? Neither parent worked, they had eight kids, and it worked out that they claimed almost fifty-eight thousand pounds a year in benefits. Christ, I never earned that before I retired, it’s just wrong,” Rachel said.
Rachel had retired at the end of the summer term and now, like most retirees, declared she didn’t know how she fitted in going to work. She’d helped Sue out many times since then, she was always popping in with food shopping that was supposedly part of a deal but she didn’t want to eat it all herself, or gifts of money to treat her and Lottie to a take away.
“Yes, but those cases are the extreme, I’m sure they just hunt them out for the sake of headlines,” Sue replied.
“Well either way, you’ve got to admit that it’s a bit much,” Rachel pushed. “When there are genuine people like you and your friends left struggling, benefits should be capped for people like that.”
“I agree but I don’t, if you know what I mean because whenever they go after the headline grabbing cases the rest of us suffer. Those who know how to exploit the system will carry on, it’s the poor sods just trying to survive that get hammered every time.”
Rachel reached across and took her hand, as did Kay.
“Okay, let’s talk babies,” Rachel said making everyone smile once more.
*****
Two days later and she was going to visit Claire, John had picked up Barbara and then herself, only Jenny couldn’t make it because of a hospital appointment. It was the first time they had made it back to the benefit’s estate since the couple had moved in, and now they were going to support them as they moved out. If it was true, when people said, what a difference a day makes, then six months had resulted in an apocalyptical change. Sue had seen the reports on TV, the continued vigilante attacks against the estates, the inevitable clean up the following day, but to see it first hand, it was overwhelming. This time there were no children playing on the grass, no bikes left outside their homes, instead it was just rubble and bottles and paint. Great bucketful’s of paint staining not only the grass, the roads, the paths, but also the fronts of houses. The graffiti of division had left its mark, scroungers out, workshy shit, welfare filth. Sue wondered how a parent even began to explain the meaning of those slogans to a child, to tell them that they, their family, were the ones under attack, vilified for political gain. How do you look into the eyes of a child and explain that they are the worthless, pieces of shit. And the imprint of violence wasn’t restricted to the homes facing the road, but further into the estate; several burnt out cars, wheelie bins, toilet roll strewn across grass, windows shattered, some boarded some not. Maybe they’d given up tidying up between the nights of chaos, why present the mob with a fresh target? The PM had come under pressure from local councils carrying the burden of repairs, and had been forced to grant emergence funding to help with the daily clean-up; only for some reason most of the resources seemed to be going into the cities, and not the estates on their borders. The Chancellor had commented that, as very few on the welfare estates paid council tax, then perhaps work should be focused upon the areas of those who did the right thing and contributed to the system. The PM hadn’t repeated his minister’s statement, but he hadn’t condemned it either.
John drove carefully, often having to stop to move obstructions from the road, they travelled in silence. Sue watched tired figures, lingering in groups, bags and brushes in hand, shuffling under the weight of it all, the pressure of existence.
It took a while but they finally made it to Claire and Fred’s bungalow, John parked behind, what Sue assumed to be, the van Harry had hired to move their things. Sue got out of the car, she felt she should be checking all angles as she walked, be aware of…what?
“It feels really creepy, doesn’t it?” Barbara asked, echoing Sue’s thoughts.
“It certainly does and what on earth are those big marquees for?” Sue asked.
Barbara just shrugged as John answered, “No idea.”
Harry came out, carrying a large box and closed the door behind him. “Hello again,” he greeted them, his face weary.
“I think it’s wonderful what you’re doing for your parents,” Barbara said.
Harry smiled, rather ruefully, as he answered, “What else could I do, they can’t stay here, not with the way things are.”
“I know, but all the same,” Barbara persisted, “there’s many a young couple who wouldn’t have offered.”
The front door opened once more, Claire and Fred stepped out, their faces showed the relief of those who’ve
endured something awful, yet know they are the lucky ones, because they can escape it. Sue embraced them both, glad to feel their solid existence after so much worry. She’d spoken to Claire often, but what can be done from a distance? As soon as she’d hung up the phone, it was cut off, that tenuous link to violence broken, even if her thoughts had often drifted back to the couple. To the evenings they’d spent, lying in their bedroom, holding on tight, all the lights extinguished, praying the sounds of hatred and outrage would pass them by, to the emotion in Fred’s voice as he spoke of a fledgling garden, trampled and covered in human excrement and to the shame they felt, as if somehow their intolerable situation was indeed all their own fault. But it hadn’t come truly to life until Sue had looked out of the car window and seen the scars of such violence upon the flagship policy.
They hadn’t uttered a word, yet already Claire, Barbara, Sue, Fred and John, all of them had tears rolling down their cheeks, relief, sorrow, anger, a mix of emotions too complex to pin down.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Fred said, and shuffled out of the room. John followed him.
“Well, at least it won’t take as long to move out as it did to move in,” Claire commented. “And if things change, I don’t know if…well, we can always get something in the future…maybe,” she shrugged.
“Oh god Claire, I’m so sorry,” Sue said.
“Don’t be daft, for what?”
Sue just shook her head, how to explain? She was sorry for her friend’s situation, for her loss of independence, for life, really.
“Still, you’ll not be sad to leave,” Barbara said.
“Certainly not, last night was the worst for a while, it’s just not stopping, every night the same,” Claire spoke in a hushed voice, as if shielding her words from an eavesdropper.
“I had to plead with Fred not to go out. We could hear them right out front, throwing stones at the window. We were lucky ours didn’t break but next doors did, the children were terrified.”
An Ordinary Working Man Page 42
