by Nick Corbett
“Carry on will you please, Simon, but slowly, I want to see what’s happening on the high street.”
Bill turns to Joe, speaks in a more engaging tone.
“You know, I’ve walked up and down this high street thousands of times. I’ve had a flat ‘ere since the seventies. The shops were trading badly, but they’re doing well now. I’m very impressed with what’s been done.” He presses a button to lower his electric window, looks out along the high street.
The vehicle pulls off slowly.
Bill waves his hand in the air, theatrically.
“Getting rid of all that highway clutter, it’s made such a difference. It really lifts my spirit.”
Giles raises one eyebrow. Bill turns his substantial bulk around in his seat and with considerable effort, crosses his short chubby legs. He emits another squeak. Joe wonders if he might have a medical condition. Bill looks very uncomfortable. He seems to have forgotten just how portly he is. Whilst in this awkward position he turns to Joe directly.
“But look ‘ere, the highways engineers don’t like it yer know, because of health and safety. Giles ‘ere has tried to stop me from even talking about the improvements to this high street.”
Bill’s eyes narrow and he stares at Giles.
“They’re worried about risk assessments all the bloody time,” he says, turning back to Joe. “I’ll tell yer lad, they’re obsessed with risk management and bloody health and safety!”
Joe tries to say something but Bill raises his hand to stop him. He continues with a tirade against the obsessions of highway engineers.
“I want to know how the council in Kensington justifies taking out hundreds of metres of guardrail. What about accidents? Are we about to face a major bloodbath? I need hard facts if I’m to support this clutter-free approach.”
Joe tries to answer again. Bill raises his hand to stop him.
“Kensington’s a wealthy area, everyone knows that, how can poorer areas pay for such improvements?”
Joe is determined to make a point before they arrive at the House of Commons.
“A clutter busting strategy saves a council ten per cent of their highway’s budget,” he interjects, eventually. “I’ve included hard facts in my note for you.”
“Very good.”
“We’ve set up video cameras along Kensington High Street, to monitor safety, both before and after the guardrails were removed. They show us how motorists and pedestrians behave.”
The Secretary of State nods thoughtfully. “Video monitoring, eh? Would you write that down please Giles?”
Giles’s upper lip curls, he snarls very slightly, forces a smile when his boss stares at him. Joe continues.
“With the guardrails up, motorists think pedestrians are safely penned in, so they drive faster. With the guardrails gone, drivers reduce their speed; they and pedestrians actually look at each other, try to anticipate each other’s actions. Everyone takes more responsibility.”
“Have you got statistics for the accident rates?”
“Yes, the accident rate is nearly halved when the guardrails are removed.”
“It’s not just about guardrails though is it?” asks Bill.
“No, we’ve put in wider stone pavements, human scale street lighting, cycle parking, and pedestrian crossings which follow desire lines. There are better shopfronts too, thanks to a new design guide. We’ve tried to create a high street that’s more pleasant to use than a shopping mall.”
Bill is impressed, he nods and smiles.
“You’re onto something ‘ere lad. It’s unfair the way pedestrians get left to the mercy of motorists. Fine high streets were one of Britain’s great achievements, a legacy from the Victorians. Highway engineers and planners have wrecked them. I struggle to cross the roads. Nobody gives a toss about us old people, or mums with prams. My urban renaissance policy is gonna deal with the highway engineers, head on!”
“Eighty per cent of public open space in cities is highways land,” Joe adds. “The engineers have a lot of clout.”
Giles looks decidedly bored, yawns. Joe continues.
“Shouldn’t our high streets bring people together for a more positive experience of urban life?”
Bill looks at Giles.
“Write that down please, Giles, I can use that.”
Joe takes a deep breath, ready to continue, but Bill raises his hand to stop him.
“We’re on the same page lad,” he says. “Social justice got me into politics.”
Due to road works they’re forced to take a slight detour. They cruise through a far less salubrious area.
“Just look at this!” Bill says, suddenly. He slides open the glass screen in front of him, talks to his driver. “Just stop ‘ere a minute will you, Simon.”
All that Joe can see of Simon is the back of his short-cropped grey hair. The vehicle pulls over. Bill turns to Joe.
“What do you reckon to this place then kid?” He gestures for Joe to look out of the window. Joe leans forward, across Cathy, sees a scene dominated by a traffic junction. There are narrow pavements, rotating adverts, redundant poles, signs everywhere, rusting guardrails, a discordant range of paving and street furniture. An advertising banner flaps in the wind. Traffic lights high up on gantries, shine into windows over the shops.
Bill pulls a face.
“All of this highways crap, up and down the land, costs the tax payer billions to install and maintain. It’s ruined this place. It makes motorists go faster, endangers pedestrians. It’s probably a job creation scheme for the fookin Freemasons. I’m not having it!”
Outside, an elderly, turbaned man waves his walking stick for the traffic to stop. He wants to cross the road. He is going to have a problem. There is a central reservation with a long line of guardrail in the middle of the road. He won’t be able cross unless he climbs over the guardrail. A car stops, headlights flash. The old man waddles forward, waves his stick with thanks. His shuffling is too slow. Car horns beep. He arrives at the central reservation, bent body leans against the guardrail. He is stuck in the middle of the road, cars whizzing in front of him and behind him. Trapped.
“What the bloody ‘ell’s he gonna do now?” asks Bill.
Joe, Cathy, and Giles are all leaning forward, staring out of the window. Another car beeps its horn.
“Shut it!” growls Bill.
The old man grasps the guardrail. He gathers his strength, begins to shuffle along the central reservation. It’s very narrow, has pointy paving. He stumbles, close to the on-coming traffic. Cathy flinches, falls back into her chair.
“I can’t bear to watch this. He’s not going to be able to cross, not until he gets to that crossing at the junction.”
“No, look, he’s found a gap!” says Joe.
They watch the old man force his large stomach between two sections of broken guardrail. Eventually, he squeezes himself through. There is a break in the traffic on the other side of the road. He hobbles across and reaches safety. Giles is annoyed.
“He knew that gap was there. He misjudged where it was. He should have just used the pedestrian crossing like everyone else.”
Bill snaps back, eyeballs bulging.
“He shouldn’t have to look for a gap. That bloody crossing’s in the wrong place. Where a highway engineer wanted it, not where an old man needs it!”
Giles falls back, timidly, into his chair. Bill taps angrily on the glass screen in front of him.
“We’ve had our practical demonstration, get us out of ‘ere please Simon! Quickly. I’m going to be late!”
After a few minutes they are driving over the River Thames at Westminster Bridge. Joe stares out of the window. A stately, shimmering edifice rises from the lapping waters like a sculpted Atlantis. The Houses of Parliament fill his field of vision. Joe is mesmerised by the sight. He is reminded of the Gothic gatehouse, which he used to see everyday, at the entrance to his council estate. Strange to think that the same architect, Pugin, designed both. The ga
tehouse always spoke to Joe of a more excellent world. Now he is looking at thrusting verticals on a much grander scale. This is the seat of government and power. The first time Joe visited the House of Commons, he was a boy on a school trip. He’d been fascinated to learn that William the Conqueror was from a line of Vikings, who settled in Normandy. William anchored his parliament within the tidal Thames, in reach of sea winds and a quick get away. Joe imagines Elizabeth II as a Viking Queen. After all, she is a direct descendant of the Conqueror. The traffic clears and so does the vision.
The ministerial vehicle pulls in through large ornate gates at the Palace of Westminster. Policemen with machine guns flank the gates. They park in a private courtyard, surrounded by stone cloisters. Due to a heightened level of security, resulting from a terrorist organization calling itself the Real IRA, they’ve been escorted all the way by the unmarked police car, with its neon sign flashing “STAY BACK!” The door to the ministerial vehicle slides open and the passengers quickly disembark. The Secretary of State, Giles and Cathy have all put on cool sunglasses for the short walk into Parliament. Joe looks more flustered. He struggles to get the appendices for his briefing paper into their proper order, ready to give to Bill. The two security men join them, both wearing wrap-around shades.
“No sunnies?” Cathy asks Joe as they stride forward purposefully. Joe shakes his head, wonders where he left his expensive Ray-Bans. The group walk in a v-formation, like migrating birds. The Secretary of State leads the way, others following in his slipstream. It is just Joe’s awkward flapping with his notes that spoils the symmetry. Several other people are in the courtyard, including journalists. Heads turn to see a Secretary of State and his entourage. A man and a woman suddenly turn and head straight towards Bill. Cathy breaks from the formation, greets the couple with handshakes. She makes some hasty introductions.
“Bill, this is the pre-arranged photo-shoot with representatives from the New Urbanism Group. They’re visiting from the States.”
Bill takes off his shades and pops them into his jacket pocket.
“Ah, yes, I like your approach.”
There are handshakes, lively banter, and smiles in front of flashing cameras. The exchange lasts for three minutes. Bill puts his shades back on and the party rolls forward. They approach an imposing Gothic porch and a line of armed police officers. Joe calms himself.
You’re going to be okay. This will be interesting. Keep breathing.
There is a loud exchange of “Good morning!” Bill seems to know everyone’s first name. Joe wonders how on earth he can remember so many names.
Perhaps he is just making them up.
Suddenly, a gust of wind blows the notes out of Joe’s hand. The pages are scattered across the courtyard. Joe panics.
“Hang on, wait for me,” he says to Cathy as he chases after the papers.
“We’ve got to press on, Joe.”
Bill shares a few words with an older policeman, he is pointing towards Joe. The policeman nods. At last, Joe manages to retrieve all of the pages, but when he looks up, the only person left is a younger policeman.
“May I see your pass please?”
“I’m with him,” replies Joe, pointing through the entrance. The back of the Secretary of State can just be seen at the end of a long corridor. The policeman turns to look, too slowly. Bill and his entourage have disappeared. The policeman shakes his head. Joe remembers the briefing notes in his hand. He yelps.
“I’ve got to get these to Bill Robinson, immediately!”
The policeman looks decidedly disinterested.
“Is he a civil servant?”
“Eh? No! He’s the Secretary of State for Regeneration!” Joe’s voice is shrill. He stutters and stammers. “He needs these papers for a speech he’s giving in a few minutes. Can’t you just let me through?”
The policeman shakes his head.
“Not without a pass.”
“Don’t you have the ability to do anything to help me?” pleads Joe.
The policeman replies coldly.
“There’s no need to be arsey with me.” But then he suddenly stands to attention. His tone of voice changes and he begins to be helpful.
“I’ll arrange for your papers to be delivered by hand, sir.”
The reason for the change is the return of the older policeman, standing beside him. Joe hands over his notes to the younger officer. He is resigned to the fact he’s not going to be let in.
“Can you tell me how to get out of here, please?”
The officer points towards the gates where Joe entered a few minutes earlier.
“Just through those gates, sir.”
Joe turns around, head held low. He worked on those blasted notes until late into the night. He doesn’t believe for one minute they’ll get to Bill Robinson in time for his speech. He walks back through the courtyard, utterly dejected.
“Excuse me, sir!”
Joe turns around. The older policeman beckons him to come back.
“I do apologise sir, you’re requested to report to security, my colleague will show you the way.” He is referring to the younger policeman who still has Joe’s notes in his hand. Joe doesn’t look happy.
“Am I in trouble?”
“I don’t know so sir, guilty conscience?”
“No.”
“You should be okay then. There’s two miles of corridors in there, I don’t want you to get lost. Please stay close to this police officer.”
Joe is escorted through bustling corridors, all gleaming and soaring with Gothic decoration; red, blue and green tiles, polished oak panelling. There are very smart people dressed in business suits. Joe and the police officer arrive at a small wooden booth. There is a sign that says “Security” above an open window. The police officer turns to Joe.
“Just give your name to the clerk at the window, someone will be along shortly. Sorry I was a bit curt earlier, ‘aving a bad morning. I’ll deliver your notes to the minister’s office.” He turns on his heels and Joe is left alone.
Joe feels distinctly uneasy. He gives his name to a pale, elderly male clerk behind the counter; he looks as if he hasn’t seen the light of day for years. After a few minutes a slightly officious looking young woman arrives.
“Helloo, are you Joe?”
She has short, brown hair, a small face, and speaks in a slightly musical Edinburgh accent.
“Hello, yes I am.”
“Pleased to meet you.” A firm handshake is exchanged. “I’m Fiona, I work for James Montgomery, the Foreign Secretary.”
Joe looks baffled. Fiona continues.
“I think we have a friend in common. Didn’t you go to school with Cathy Baker?”
“Er, yeah, that’s right.”
“It’s a small world isn’t it?”
Joe looks anxious. “It is, but what am I doing here, Fiona? I’ve got no idea what’s going on.”
“Och, I’m sorry, you do know James Montgomery though, don’t you?”
“Well, I met him over ten years ago, at a birthday party. He’s my friend’s cousin. James had just become an MP back then.”
“Oh, is that right? He’d have been the youngest MP back then. You’ll know he’s very friendly, there’s nothing to worry about.” Fiona is trying to put Joe at ease.
“I remember him being very down to earth, but there’s some mistake, you seem to be suggesting I’ve got a meeting with him. I haven’t. I had a meeting earlier with Bill Robinson, the Secretary of State for Regeneration.”
Fiona looks at him as if he’s an idiot child. “Och, as I say, you’re not to worry Joe, he’s very friendly, would you please follow me?”
“First of all Fiona, please tell me what’s going on?”
“Well, Joe, you’ve got a meeting with the Foreign Secretary.”
“Eh? You’re serious?”
“Of course.”
“What’s it about?”
Fiona glances at her watch. “I don’t know but come on. We should
n’t keep him waiting.
They walk along endless corridors. Joe tries to guess why the Foreign Secretary wants him to see him. It must be mistaken identity. Something else springs to mind.
“I’ve just had an article published in The Times, I wonder if that’s what he wants to see me about?”
Fiona looks quite impressed.
“You’ve had an article published, in The Times?”
“Yeah.”
“What’s it about?”
“High streets, it’s nothing to do with foreign policy.”
“Och, he’s very interested in sustainable development.”
“Perhaps that’s why he wants to see me then?”
“Could be.”
“Actually, I need the loo.”
“We’ll pass one shortly.” Fiona looks a bit worried about Joe. She glances at her watch again and mutters something about keeping the Ambassador to the Netherlands waiting.
“We’ll take a shortcut,” she adds.
They leave the corridor and climb a narrow back staircase. They walk along another wide, carpeted corridor, then there’s another narrow staircase to climb. There is a series of narrow, dark, little corridors. At last they arrive in a very grand, bright hallway, flanked by a line of Gothic arched windows.
“I’ll never find my way out of here Fiona,” says Joe, his heart racing.
“Och, don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get out all right. There’s the loo.”
Joe enters the single cubicle toilet. He takes a few deep breaths and gathers his thoughts. He washes his face with cold water, drinks from the tap.
What’s this all about?Does Britain’s Foreign Secretary really want to see me to discuss my article about street design? Hardly.
Joe decides he has two options. Firstly, he can proceed as existing, in a heightened state of anxiety. Secondly, he can relax and actually enjoy this privileged tour of Parliament. He joins Fiona. She glances at her watch, gives Joe a stern look, hurries him onwards. A little further on, they arrive in a grand anteroom. The Foreign Secretary’s core team are busy on telephones and computers. A couple of them look furtively at Joe. Smiles are exchanged. The room has a large Gothic window, framing an oblique view of Westminster Abbey. The scale and grandeur of the Abbey is very impressive. One of the assistants approaches Fiona. She gives her a nod and a smile and points towards an inner door. As Joe follows Fiona through this second door, he feels the thick pile ruby red carpet give gently beneath his shoes.
