Open Arms

by Vince Cable

  ‘Kate, thank you so much for making time to come and see me. You have made such an impact since you came into the House. The tea room’ (which he never visited) ‘is singing your praises. Your Newsnight interview has become a legend – I have suggested that we use it as a master class for training wannabee MPs. How about it?’

  She nodded appreciatively – feeling that although the PM was a notorious flatterer, and she was susceptible to flattery, he was getting beyond parody.

  ‘And an entrepreneur too! Too many bloody researchers, communications consultants and special advisers. Don’t you agree?’ She agreed. But not too enthusiastically since she recalled that he had been all three in his time.

  ‘I have given a lot of thought to this and have decided to fast-track you to Minister of State level. Trade. Should suit you with your outstanding business background. And deep knowledge of India. Priceless. One of our main challenges, post-Brexit, will be to land an ambitious trade agreement with the big non-EU economies. As you know, the negotiations we launched last year are coming to a climax. We are not getting much change out of the EU so we absolutely must deliver on our promises to open up other markets to British exporters. India is top of our list. But it’s proving very, very difficult. We need someone who can unlock the vast potential there. You are just the person.’

  Kate desperately wanted to shrink these ludicrously inflated expectations. But she could see he was in transmit, not receive, mode. She also noticed that he had a problem looking her in the eye and was gazing anywhere but. He seemed to be one of those men who struggled to engage with self-confident, attractive women. Then she remembered all those stories from years back about young men in Turkish baths and made a connection with the good-looking young men in the outer office. ‘Stop it, Kate,’ she said to herself. ‘This is the Prime Minister.’ And he was, as far as was publicly known, in a long and happy, if childless, marriage.

  ‘Best of luck. I expect great things from you. Don’t let me down. The big trade deal with India. It could be your legacy – and mine. But I will leave it to your new boss, Jim, to brief you.’ A wave of the hand ended the interview.

  Kate set off to start her new job as Big Ben was striking noon and ducked and weaved through the traffic, walking across the front of Westminster Abbey to where she thought the department lay. She had been offered a car by one of the PM’s young men but felt the idea of taking a lift in bright sunshine for a two-hundred-yard journey was beyond parody of the ministerial lifestyle. She wasn’t yet the Prime Minister, or the Queen. Leaving nothing to chance, however, the young man had arranged for her to be met by her private secretary as soon as she arrived. Unfortunately, things did not go well. She soon realised that her hazy idea of where the department lay, somewhere behind the Abbey and Methodist Central Hall, led her to the Department for Work and Pensions where baffled receptionists sought to help a lost Minister of State they hadn’t expected or even heard of.

  Eventually she found the right department and an extremely agitated private secretary who looked as if he was about to call the police missing persons’ line. ‘Sorry, I got lost in the London maze, I’m just a country bumpkin. Next time I’ll take a compass.’

  He didn’t do humour. ‘Minister, I would advise you, in future, to stick to the recognised route if you insist on not utilising the ministerial car. My name is Edwin Thoroughgood. I am your private secretary.’

  She groaned inwardly at the thought of being looked after by this young fogey who was emaciated and stooped and acted as if he already had one foot in an old folks’ home. His spotty and unhealthily grey face hinted at a life spent in front of a computer screen. She thought he resembled a hermit released from a lifetime of monastic contemplation who had just been confronted by his worst nightmare: a woman with attitude. The journey to the top floor took place in silence and his eyes sought refuge in the lift carpet. When they reached the ministerial corridor she was led through an expanse of open plan offices with adjacent rooms for three ministers of state and three parliamentary under-secretaries and their staff. All were regarded as unexceptional ministerial ballast, except for the most junior, a hereditary peer who owned much of Scotland but was here to promote food and drink exports, especially spirits. The Secretary of State had a grander office with a view.

  Kate’s office was smart, bright and functional but horribly disfigured by a dark, brooding, giant oil painting in the style of Landseer featuring a large stag and slavering bloodhounds: no doubt a masterpiece but utterly incongruous in this setting. Kate’s first executive decision was to instruct Edwin to get rid of it.

  ‘But, Minister, these things are not straightforward. There is a process. I will, however, speak to someone from the government art collection to investigate the possibility of making a change. Your predecessor, I should say, loved the painting and he was a man of good taste.’

  ‘Please, Edwin, just get rid of it. Now.’ This relationship was not going to last long.

  When Mehmet sat down in his cabin for the night shift he had largely forgotten the episode two weeks ago when he sensed, or perhaps imagined, an intruder in the factory. Nothing untoward had happened since.

  He had enrolled for an Open University course and had learnt to divide his attention between the CCTV monitors, the entrance area of the factory and maths problems that he found easy but at least kept his brain alive. At 3am there was absolutely nothing to disturb the peace. He set off for the entrance area for his mid-shift visit to the toilet. He had discovered that splashing water on his face helped him to keep his concentration, and the short walk was a welcome break from the tedium.

  It was, however, very dark, no moon, and he had a tremor of anxiety leaving the secure cocoon of his cabin. As he unlocked the front doors, he thought he heard a sound from the inside of the building. Then silence. He decided to open the main door that led to the design office, which in turn opened out into the main production area of the factory. The office was in semi-darkness, as it should have been, but he noticed a fading glow on one of the PC screens and, nearby, the illuminated panel of the lift showed it to be in use. The lift led to the basement, the secret area to which he had no access.

  He knew that something untoward was going on: someone had been using a computer and had taken refuge in the basement to which only a dozen or so high-level staff had access. He made a note of the terminal that had been in use and returned to his cabin. Perhaps someone had put in some overtime and had hidden when they heard him entering, perhaps believing him to be an intruder? That didn’t seem likely. But if a senior, trusted, member of staff was engaged in something subversive inside the building, he had little or no concrete evidence. Anyway, would he be believed, an asylum seeker from Africa paid a minimum wage to sit in a hut outside? Back in his cabin he watched the monitors carefully but no one emerged from the building. When the shift ended and the first workers arrived in the morning he had a dilemma about what to put in his security report. His first report of a suspected intruder had been laughed off. This time they would think he was a fantasist or a troublemaker. But, if something was going on, and if it was exposed, why hadn’t the security guard reported what he had seen?

  Steve arrived for work as usual. He used to look forward to a day on the machine where his carefully honed skills made him an outstandingly productive worker. But these days his mind wandered. His work schedule would be broken up by a union meeting on the new shift patterns proposed by management and he had to prepare himself for a difficult evening meeting he was chairing at the council on budget cuts.

  He had, as it happened, arrived early and on an impulse decided to make the detour through the finance department. He realised he was being ridiculous but the prospect of seeing Shaida Khan was a bigger draw than a chat before work with the lads about the weekend football results.

  The room was empty except for Shaida, seemingly engrossed in work in her glass cubicle. No Witches. He couldn’t hide under the comfort blanket of their office banter. He couldn’t
easily retreat. And he had no good reason to be there. But this was an opportunity to have the conversation he had rehearsed for some time.

  The object of his fantasies was well aware that Steve was in the background. She had designed her office in such a way that through reflections in the glass she effectively had 360-degree vision. Forewarned she had time to prepare her defences against someone whose demeanour did not suggest that he anticipated a seminar in accounting. She had developed a Miss Brisk persona to impose her authority on such occasions. She turned sharply.

  ‘Good morning. Are you here to discuss the group finances?’

  ‘Well, actually, we’ve seen a fair bit of each other at meetings but I’ve never really introduced myself properly – I’m Steve, Grant.’

  ‘I know exactly who you are, Steve. My dad told me about you. Actually he is a fan of yours – he seems to think you may be a Labour Prime Minister someday. And I believe you helped secure my job. I guess I’m indebted to you… Unless there is anything else? It’s a busy day and I need to get on with my work.’

  Thoroughly discombobulated, he struggled to continue. He realised he had never chatted up a woman before; not beyond politics and union business. With his ex-wife he had never had to. But those big brown eyes seemed to send a different, more welcoming, message than the abrupt voice. ‘Er… how do you like it here? These girls here… maybe not your cup of tea?’

  ‘What do you mean? They are lovely. Trouble is, you men think “these girls” are only interested in shagging and booze. They’re usually having you all on. Sam, the cheeky one who goes on about black blokes, spends her spare time looking after her disabled sister. Sharon, the tall one, came top in the region in her professional exams. And Cilla is seriously competitive at Taekwondo. They’re kind and good fun and we have an excellent team.’

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t realise. They wind up the lads on the shop floor no end.’ He started to look nervously at the clock and the stairs behind him. It was now or never. ‘But you… do you fancy a drink sometime?’

  ‘You mean you want to take me out on a date?’

  ‘Yes… but… only…’

  ‘Ah, the “but”… I don’t want to be snide, but this conversation is quite inappropriate. We both have senior roles in this company and our relationship is professional. Besides, I am the only Asian woman here and you’re a well-known face. Word gets around. And you are a bit obvious, you know, fancying me.’

  He looked desperately crushed and she judged that he was a sensitive man who wasn’t used to this situation. So she decided to soften the blow.

  ‘Let me explain. My mum and dad want me to have my freedom. But even they want to line up the right kind of husband for me. They have kept the family together despite all the bad things that happen here. Somehow I have to find a way to do my own thing without breaking their hearts. That means I stay clear of trouble. This is work, not a dating agency. Do you get it?’

  He mumbled a ‘yes’, not having expected the rebuff or the eloquent speech that she must surely have prepared in her mind. And she hadn’t finished.

  ‘So, there is no question of a date. But if you want to be a friend as well as a colleague, I have an idea. My brother and his friends are worrying my family. Radicalisation and all that. They won’t talk seriously to us. My dad and I have tried to talk politics to them but they won’t listen. They think the Muslim councillors in the town are a joke. Just operating a vote bank for Labour. They see you as different. They might listen to you. Will you come and chat to them?’

  He didn’t get a chance to say more than yes, to say what he felt: utterly besotted but with a deeper undercurrent of anxiety. There was a scramble up the stairs and Sharon emerged first: ‘Ah, caught in the act!’ He made himself scarce, muttering something about being on his way to see the boss.

  On Steve’s way to the shop floor he reflected on how he had got into this situation. He remembered the events – eight years ago? – that were the making of him, thanks to Mr Khan, but could have been a disaster. He was then a headstrong, ambitious shop-floor worker in his early twenties who had already built up a following in the union and the party. People loved the way he spoke, with the accent and idiom of his working class contemporaries but with the fluency and vocabulary of those clever, educated people who seemed to run everything including working class organisations.

  One day, Calum called in the union reps for a ‘frank chat’. The company was ‘up the creek without a paddle’, as he put it. The financial crisis was in full swing. Orders had dried up. Banks had turned nasty: wanted their money back, pronto. Big defence cuts in the US and the UK had killed the goose that laid the golden eggs for defence contractors. Over half the workforce would have to go – then, five hundred people – plus subcontractors. The rest could stay to finish contracts or do maintenance work. ‘Sorry, guys, I did my best.’

  But the guys didn’t think much of his best. Steve, the militant, started to capture the mood of his mates and dominated the discussions in the canteen. He demanded a strike to force the management to think again by putting the rest of the business at risk. He could also see that in the absence of a strong workers’ response the labour force would fracture along racial lines. Not too many years ago Pulsar, like many industrial companies, operated a colour bar confining Asian newcomers to unskilled jobs and it had taken a strong stand by the Asian workers, led by Mr Khan, to break it. But the shared jokes and sex magazines in the canteen created a fragile illusion of solidarity. Now the mood was turning ugly again with rumours that ‘the Pakis’ were being favoured (or discriminated against according to the audience) and BNP leaflets were circulating in the factory.

  After a particularly bitter meeting, Mr Khan took Steve aside and proposed a Plan B; what was, in effect, a pay cut to save the plant and the jobs. The company would have a year to drum up some new business with a guarantee of earlier worker bonuses if profits returned. He had done the maths and it worked. Steve immediately grasped that something along these lines was necessary; he could see that militancy was no answer to this particular crisis and had no wish to become a doomed Arthur Scargill figure. When he sounded out the workforce there was support on the basis that this was the least bad option.

  Mr Khan was able to mobilise the Asian workers and a branch meeting agreed, on a show of hands, to present the plan to management. Calum was relieved and promptly rang his leading investors who were so impressed that they agreed to put in more cash. Then a stroke of luck: a competitor had gone bust, couldn’t deliver and Pulsar was asked to fulfil its outstanding contracts.

  Soon the word got around and reached the ears of government ministers and union bosses that, in the depths of a plunging economy, here was a turnaround story, under union leadership: flexible but hard-headed, pragmatic but tough. A model for British industry. The TV cameras and print journalists needed an articulate spokesman and they found it in Steve, while Mr Khan retreated into the background, his natural modesty reinforced by his reluctance to use his heavily accented English. The local, then the national, Labour Party seized upon the new Messiah: a genuinely working class moderniser; a union man but not a Luddite, articulate but not a party wordsmith, recycling half-understood ideas from textbooks; a man who talked about ‘British working families’ from experience and not as if they were a tribe in Papua New Guinea.

  In the years that followed Steve had progressed, and believed he now had the choice of a safe seat in parliament or progression to the leadership of his union. He had remained close to Mr Khan who could help mobilise the ethnic vote in party and council elections. He had reciprocated where possible and had cemented the friendship by prevailing upon Calum to take Ms Khan into the company, ignoring the CVs of dozens of other applicants for the job. Now he was hopelessly, and dangerously, in love with Mr Khan’s daughter.

  There was no way that Shaida could show any sign of reciprocating these feelings. But she had definitely taken a liking to Steve Grant, who, she had noticed, was pleasant looking an
d, when out of his overalls, snappily dressed. Had he been an aspiring US politician his tall, slim, athletic physique and flashing smile would have been a passport to success. But in both the industrial and political wings of the Labour Movement good looks, of men and women, were regarded with deep suspicion: indicating vanity or narcissism or, worse, a sign of reversion to the days of the traitor Blair when image and the ability to cut a dash in the Tory press enjoyed more weight than socialist substance. Shaida had so far taken little notice of such matters. But this morning’s conversation had stimulated her interest. And she could see how a carefully managed friendship could be of value to them both.

  CHAPTER 4

  THE MINISTER

  The Hindu, 23 June 2019:

  The Indian government has announced that it has successfully completed the ninth test of its anti-missile defence programme. A spokesman stated that the test has been a success and that the government is on track with its plan for a missile shield for Mumbai and Delhi. However, Rtd Major-General Aggarwal of a Delhi defence think-tank cast doubt on the success of the tests and said that, with current technology, India is ‘many years’ away from a successful missile shield.

  After a few days in the job, Kate had her first meeting with the Secretary of State who had just returned from his overseas visit drumming up business for the UK. James (Jim) Chambers was a big man: physically, politically and commercially. The Prime Minister had climbed to power on his shoulders and depended heavily on him. Out of favour under the PM’s predecessor, he had come back with a vengeance to head up post-Brexit trade promotion and negotiations and was, in effect if not in name, the deputy Prime Minister. His voice had a twang of Geordie, which gave him that touch of northern authenticity so prized in his party for its scarcity value.