by Miles Hadley
Some people, he thought, even the nutters, give a shit. He wanted to give a shit, too. He wanted to build something for Warren. Be able to provide for him, in the name of his and his sister’s mum. She would have wanted her family to be something – something more than all of this shittiness. He suddenly said it out loud.
‘What would you want from me, Mum?’
There was no answer, but all he could do was remember her when he was little, as she lay in the hospital bed.
‘My soldier...’ she had said. ‘A good lad.’
21
Ah, Notting Hill! The setting of so much cliquery! The stage upon which our country is so often carved! Heed our call, they cry! Heed our call! The trend-setting darlings of the right. Only ‘Big Society’ for them – never the small! They do it big now because big is great! They, the media, have marketed the acceptable face of rightdom. Gimmickery, gimmickery, gimmickery! Heir to Blair ’cos they care! No such thing as a selfish Tory. Big – yes, yes, yes! Society? Of course they are! And don’t forget high society at that!
The Shoddleys’ London residence was there, right in the heart of it all. It was one of those white stucco-fronted houses that had been bought by the family back in the early nineties, before the cusp of the Notting Hill boom. Rupert, following on from his success at ingratiating himself with powerful Tories in the north of England, had decided to host a drinks evening.
Archie, Polly, Henry and Razza attended. It was one of the most invigorating evenings for Archie when it came to the welfare of the country. Henry got ‘With Pleasure’ to lay it on at no cost to Rupert, which Archie thought was rather sweet. There was champagne, oysters, and all sorts of other delectable nibbles on offer. Perhaps unusually, due to the high-profile nature of two of the guests, there was extremely tight security.
Archie was told that two senior and very distinguished Tories were going to give speeches that evening. The emphasis would be on their last election win and why, at all costs, the Union should be maintained and the deficit reduced. Archie watched them milling around with the other guests.
He noticed one of them was so comical and managed to scoff a vol-au-vent so quickly that crumbs fell down his chin before he wiped them with a napkin.
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘I like a good vol-au-vent. Got to be the best French invention there is!’ That remark prompted guffaws from his surrounding and admiring entourage – including, by then, Archie. Good stock, good brain, correct education and bloody good sense of humour – if slightly crackers. Just what Blighty needed, Archie thought.
Archie wanted to take a portrait of the Tory. He thought about asking Rupert or Henry whether it might be possible for them to put in a good word with one of his aides. Archie harboured a wish to photograph him at a desk, like Beaton’s famous Churchill portrait, with paperwork in front of him – highlighting his power and, perhaps, showing a nod to the great Statesman.
The other guest was far more serious and his expression gave the feeling that one had to be extremely careful what they discussed with him. For, here was a man not to cross lightly, who took his job comparatively seriously. For this reason, he had fewer people around him who might be looking for an ultimate one-liner or jibe, simply because those things did not come naturally to him.
Two extremely serious-looking aides frequently whispered things to this particular guest. Despite this, Archie admired him also, for here was a man with a similar background to himself, and with the balls to talk about trimming the fat in all areas of Government since the Labour gravy train fiasco. If Archie could take a portrait of him, it would be standing, perhaps in the shadows with light cast upon him.
After a good few minutes of mingling, Archie watched as Rupert tinkled a crystal champagne glass with a silver teaspoon.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began, ‘may I have your attention please. It is with great pleasure that I welcome you all to my parents’ home. Please make yourselves comfortable. I am pleased to announce that the first of our most distinguished speakers is about to make a short address to our esteemed assemblage.’
There was a brief round of applause.
The more portly of the two senior Tories spoke, after brushing back a lock of his haystack hair, while still holding his half-full champagne glass in front of his stomach.
‘I thank Rupert and the wider Shoddley family for their warm hospitality. Now, as we all know... we have just won a stonkingly good win with a majority that has enabled us to surpass the commentators’ expectations.’
‘Hear, hear,’ agreed the assemblage.
‘Yet, we find our one nation Toryism in dangerous peril,’ the speaker continued. ‘As we sail our economy through the stormy waters from a situation in which New Labour nearly sank us, we find a new and more powerful threat from the north. It comes in the form of Scottish Nationalism and it, combined with the relative weakness of the Unionist parties in Scotland, ourselves included, has led to a number of Commons seats – I think the figure is fifty-six – that the likes of Churchill and Thatcher would be ashamed of.’
This led to more cries of ‘Hear, hear’ from the audience.
‘It is at times like this, that we must never be complacent, despite such a convincing election win overall in England. We must resolve, therefore, to re-engage with the electorate in a way that we have never done before in order to keep the good ship Britannia afloat. We have to keep banging our economy drum. And if the Scots don’t hear us from down here, we have to keep banging that drum louder and ever louder.’
The speaker paused for a while to let the resounding cries of ‘Hear, hear’ die down.
‘And when I say banging that drum, I don’t mean a pathetic toy snare drum-type thing that a mechanical monkey would play... I mean a massive kettle drum that a warrior would bang. For, be it known that we are going to have one of the most heated war of words that Britain has ever seen in order to preserve our beloved Union.
‘Thank you, Rupert, my host, for inviting me here this evening, and I look forward to perhaps seeing my Notting Hill neighbour one day serve in the Commons, fighting for what is right and for what is British Conservatism and Unionism!’
There was rapturous applause. After a few moments, the next speaker came and stood next to the first and patted him on the back. He, too, began, holding his half-empty glass of champagne.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. May I just begin by complimenting the hosts on their excellent choice of wallpaper!’
There was laughter and cries of ‘Hear, hear’ once more from the gathering.
‘I am going to talk to you all today about the deficit, and how our fight to keep it down and reduce it has been by no means easy. We have had to make a lot of drastic cuts and sacrifices along the way in order to get our nation back on a genuinely solid financial footing. The decisions that have taken place have been very difficult. But I would like to emphasise this – such decisions would not have been necessary were it not for the foolhardy over-expenditure of our Labour predecessors. We all know what Labour means to people. It has never meant “labour”. It means spend, spend and spend, again on things that are wasteful and that we can ill afford...’
Suddenly, a senior Tory aide received a telephone call on his mobile and proceeded to whisper into the speaker’s ear.
‘If you would excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, I am as you know quite a busy man. I thank Rupert and the Shoddley family for the lovely evening here, but I must leave on some pressing business. I would love to have stayed, particularly in a room that is furnished with such fine wallpaper! Thank you and good evening.’
There was a large murmur in the room, but then a rapturous round of applause. The first speaker left with the second. Both were rushed outside into two waiting official-looking cars, with some bodyguards and police. The guests all moved to the windows and peered at them with evident curiosity and admiration. The ones who knew them well even
waved and smiled through the Georgian panes.
‘Bloody hell,’ Archie said to Henry and Rupert. ‘You never said that they’d be making an appearance here!’
‘Ha, ha...’ replied Rupert. ‘It took some arse licking, but we managed it, didn’t we, Henry?’
Henry looked at him and smiled proudly. ‘We’ll make a Tory boy of you yet, Cuz.’
Archie noticed Rupert was beaming. Anna came along by his side and was quite obviously star-struck.
‘Bloody hell,’ she laughed, kissing Rupert on the cheek. ‘Somebody get me some champers!’
‘A-nna,’ warned Rupert, suddenly remembering his twenty-first embarrassment.
She shot him a glare back. ‘It was only going to be one sodding glass.’
‘No, you’ve had enough,’ Rupert replied.
‘Christ, Rupert,’ Archie laughed when Anna was safely out of earshot. ‘Turning into quite the task master, aren’t you?’
Polly and Razza seemed to agree. ‘Yes, lay it easy on her, Cuz,’ said Razza.
‘I know,’ replied Rupert. ‘I just don’t want to get it all fucked up, that’s all.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Razza. ‘You’re only twenty-one. You’re not Prime Minister yet!’
Rupert laughed. ‘Pitt the Younger was twenty-four when he was PM.’
‘Seriously?’ Archie grinned. ‘Fucking hell! Did he not have a life or something?’
Polly interjected. ‘Arch... will you keep the “fucking hells” a bit quieter. There are one or two prudish Tories here!’
Archie laughed at her. ‘Okay, Mother,’ he said and gave her a quick peck on the cheek.
Rupert looked at Polly. ‘Why don’t you come and join me, Cuz?’
‘What? Become a Tory?’ replied Polly, who began laughing and gave a slight snort.
‘Oh, yes,’ replied Rupert. ‘Sorry, I forgot. You’re a Raynard and, therefore, have to be a rebel without a cause. Or at least pretend to be one.’ He chuckled, perhaps a little mockingly.
Razza interceded in defence of his sister and family name. ‘Careful, Cuz, or we shall have to take that one outside,’ he chuckled. ‘And it won’t look very pleasant in front of your distinguished guests, will it?’
‘Charlatans!’ laughed Rupert defiantly. ‘I always wondered which branch had the black sheep!’
Everybody in the small group laughed. Archie looked briefly at Henry, who had remained quiet. Henry looked back at him strangely and Archie wondered why the look made him worry. Henry did not have the usual healthy glow to his visage and had dark rings under his eyes. Archie put his arm around Polly and gave her another peck on the cheek.
22
Gary was woken by a knock on the front door. He could hear that Sheila was watching television downstairs.
‘Probably watching Jeremy Kyle,’ he said to himself.
Eventually there was another knock. He heard Sheila call out. ‘Yeah? Who is it?’
‘Hello,’ said a cheery voice. ‘I’m Sally Mackintosh from social services. Is that Sheila?’
‘What the fuck is it to you if I am?’ came the curt reply.
‘Sheila... I’ve just come to check to see if you and the baby are all right.’
‘Fuck off, please. It’s none of your business.’
‘Sheila. Can you open the door, please? I’d like to come in and have a chat.’
‘What the fuck about?’
Gary was still in his bed listening. He looked up at the poster of Rose or Paulette and rolled his eyes.
‘I just want to see if you and the baby are all right,’ Sally repeated.
Eventually, Gary could hear the latch being moved on the door. Sheila had relented.
Gary heard a cheery, ‘You all right, love? Is it all right if I come in and have a chat?’
‘Depends what it’s about.’
‘Shall I make us a cup of tea, or would you like to?’ said the social worker.
‘No,’ came the reply. Gary let out a sigh as he heard the baby screaming in the background.
‘Why not?’ the social worker asked.
It was too much for Gary to take. Exasperated, he got out of bed and put his clothes on.
‘Cos I don’t have any,’ he heard his sister say.
‘You don’t have any what?’
‘Food or nothing.’
‘So, what are you feeding the baby?’
‘Do what I can.’
Gary stomped down the stairs and intervened. The social worker beamed a smile at him.
‘Hello, young man,’ she said.
He responded with a scowl. ‘We don’t need your help.’
‘Look, young man,’ replied the social worker. ‘I’m only here for a routine check-up. Sheila, is this your brother?’
‘Yes,’ said Sheila.
‘And where’s the baby, Sheila? Can I see him?’
‘What do you want to see the fucking baby for?’ Gary asked.
The screaming in the background got louder.
‘Is he upstairs, Sheila?’
‘What’s it to you?’ Gary and Sheila challenged in unison.
‘Sheila, love. I just want to see if the baby is okay.’
‘What’s it to you if it ain’t?’ said Gary loudly.
‘Calm down,’ replied the social worker. ‘There’s no need for that tone with me. Like I said, it’s just a routine...’
‘I haven’t said anything with a fucking tone!’ Gary shouted. ‘I just want to know what you interfering busybodies want, that’s all!’
‘Look, love...’
‘Stop calling me fucking “love”,’ Gary responded, ‘and leave us the fuck alone.’
‘How did you get those bruises, Gary? Were you in a fight?’ Sally asked.
‘None of your fucking business.’
‘Look, I understand your frustrations,’ said Sally. ‘I’d just like to see if your sister and the baby are okay, that’s all.’
‘Then stop asking me fucking questions about my bruises.’
‘All right, poppet. Sheila love, are you going to let me see Warren?’
Sheila reluctantly agreed. Gary watched resignedly as the two women climbed up the narrow, dingy stairs to the bedroom.
Eventually, the social worker came back down with Sheila. ‘Look, I’m sorry love,’ said Sally. ‘I’m just not very happy with the conditions here. I think we’re going to have to do a proper assessment and then consider putting Warren in care.’
‘What do you fucking mean?’ Sheila exploded.
‘Sheila, I’m only doing this for Warren’s welfare. It’s really important that he’s properly fed, in suitable living conditions, and...’
‘Are you telling me that I’m unfit to look after my own fucking son?’
Sally looked at her without saying anything.
‘You are, aren’t you? Do you realise how fucking insulting that is? Being told that I can’t even look after my own son?’
‘Sheila, let’s see what the assessment says, shall we?’
‘Look,’ said Gary. ‘Hang on a minute. You can’t just take my sister’s baby away.’
‘I’m not saying that’s what we’ll definitely do,’ replied Sally. ‘However, I must warn you both that it is extremely likely.’
‘We won’t let you,’ said Gary.
‘Look, you have to take into consideration the overall welfare of Warren,’ said Sally. ‘I think, on the whole, the chances of him going into care are likely.’
‘But you can’t fucking do that!’ shouted Gary in disbelief. ‘You have no right! You can’t just walk in and take my sister’s baby.’
‘Look, I understand your concerns, but right now I think it’s probably going to be the best thing for Warren.’
The letter arrived the next day. Gar
y watched as Sheila opened it. It advised Sheila that Warren was deemed to be at risk and should be brought into care with immediate effect.
‘No!’ Sheila screamed, crying. ‘They can’t do this! They can’t fucking take my Warren away! He’s all I’ve fucking got! Once they’ve taken him away what have I got left?’
Gary watched his sister sob. ‘Oh fuck…’ He put his arm around her to comfort her.
‘This ain’t right,’ she cried. ‘It just ain’t right.’
***
Two days later, Gary heard a knock at the door again. It was Sally Mackintosh with a fellow social worker.
‘Hi, love,’ said Sally. ‘Look, I’m really sorry, but we’ve come to see Sheila about taking Warren away.’
‘You can’t do this,’ he said.
‘Gary, poppet, it’s for the welfare of Warren. We have to make sure that he is as healthy and happy as possible in infancy.’
‘Who is it, Gaz?’ Sheila came from the kitchen. As soon as she saw the two social workers she began to panic. Gary could see the desperation in Sheila’s eyes. He tried to stop her, but she ran up the stairs.
‘Sheila!’ Sally yelled.
Gary ran up the stairs behind Sheila.
He watched as Sheila lifted Warren from the cot and held him close to her chest. ‘What am I going to do, Gaz?’ Sheila began to cry. ‘I feel like I’ve failed as a mum.’ Some of her teardrops fell upon the head of Warren.
‘Come here,’ Gary said, holding them both close. ‘Look. We’ll let them take him for now, but we’ll get him back, and bring him up properly. Good food, good education.’
‘How the fuck are we going to do that here, Gaz?’ Sheila cried. ‘It ain’t just about not having much money. It’s the whole thing. He’d fall into a gang, probably get arrested young for some crime like you did. It’s quality of life. We just haven’t got what is needed for a good quality of life like Mum would have wanted. It’s like the odds were stacked against him, straight from the time I gave birth to him. It’s just so fucked up. Like a nightmare.’
