THE QUOTE:
"It was my integrity that was im****tant. Is that so selfish? It sells for
so
little but it's all we have left in this place. It is the very last inch
of
us. But within that inch we are free. An inch. It's small and it's fragile
and it's the only thing in the world that's worth saving." - Valerie Page
in
Alan Moore's V for Vendetta.
THE COMMENT:
There is a section on cricket that only Brits, Australians, West Indians,
Indians etc. will understand. Apologies in advance.
BODY POLITIC
Copyright Alaric McDermott 2008
After his father died, there was an hour or two when Humphrey felt that
his
shadow was shortening, that his life was enclosed and that for the first
time the end of it was in sight. He was aware of his self-pity, and he was
also aware that self-pity was nothing new for him. This was the first
time,
though, that he had focussed on death rather than misfortune. or minutes
on
end, in the musty drawing room of Leven House, he stood before the
****trait
of a man he had always disappointed, often wilfully. It was an oil of
questionable quality, which caught his father's essential humourlessness,
but missed the perpetual sneer.
Eventually, because it was his need and because it was his nature,
Humphrey
crossed the line between grief, such as it was, and administration. It was
for him to organise the funeral, and it was for him to deal with the
press.
His wife was a candle, no stiffness to her, flickering in the breeze of
fate, and his daughter was rebellious and unaccountably forlorn. As was
often the case, there was something to be gained from loss. This evening,
there was a vote on the Financial Services Bill. It was for Humphrey to
rally the troops. The votes of at least ten backbenchers - Humphrey's
limited power base - waited for his call, his word, his nod. In the
absence
of his intervention, there was a possibility at least that the vote might
be
lost. If it was, the chances of a leader****p challenge increased
exponentially, and Humphrey could throw his hat into the ring. Yesterday,
the only option had been to offer sup****t, because the party would never
welcome a leader who created the crisis that offered the op****tunity.
Today,
he had options.
Would he be attending the House this evening?
"I understand the im****tance of the vote. And I think that my father, a
pillar of the Conservative party for thirty years, would have wanted me to
set aside this unbearable loss and sup****t the Bill. But my presence will
not decide the vote, and I have duties here. I choose, this once, on this
desperately sad day, to put family before politics."
Would he say how he would have voted had he been present?
"I think my loyalties are clear enough, and I trust my friends and
colleagues to do the right thing. They know their duty, and today is not
in
any event a day on which I feel able to remind them of it."
Yes. He was ready. The key was to play a straight bat. As he'd learned to
do
forty years before.
He'd carried the bat then - come in at number three, played a safe solid
innings whilst his teammates one by one flashed out in the vain hope of an
unreachable target, one by one threw away their wickets. It was the
varsity
cricket match. John Cairns came in at eight, sixty still to get, only five
overs to get them, and hammered an impossible forty two off eighteen balls
before skying one. Thomas Bailey came in at nine and hit two fours before
losing his off stump. With the few runs Humphrey had added, nine were
needed
off the last over. Humphrey was on strike and Basil Hunter, a vicious spin
bowler but an appalling batsman, took up station at the other end.
The decision had been hard, and it had defined his life. He could alter
his
style, and go for a few shots, but if he failed, either by coming up short
or by losing his wicket, he would be forever remembered as the man who
ultimately lost the most exciting varsity game of modern times, who
stumbled
when his peers had shown such skill and courage. The alternative was to be
seen as the bulldog, the one who held firm, the one who could have won it.
A nick. A quick single. Basil at the business end. A quick word to him
about
having to give the single back, as soon as he could. Basil, facing the
next
ball, rabbit in headlights. Another nick, this one high, straight to the
slips. Game over. Humphrey the strong, Basil the fool. Humphrey the hero.
Except to his father.
Except to the man who held Humphrey in unceasing contempt, and knew
exactly
what he had done.
After his statement at the gate to the press, which went exactly as
Humphrey
had intended, his wife found him in the garden and fluttered a pale hand
towards him. At first he thought that, uncharacteristically, she was
offering comfort, then he saw that she was holding his mobile phone.
"It's the Prime Minister," she said.
He took the phone and she moved away, disappearing into the sun as she
turned into side profile. He placed the phone to his ear.
"Humphrey." The voice was sepulchral yet simultaneously dull, the voice of
the undertaker this man had proven himself to be.
"Yes. Speaking."
"It must be a terrible day."
"It is."
"Sudden."
"Yes. It was quite sudden."
"My sympathies."
"Thank you."
"He was a good man."
"Yes."
"Served the party well."
"Yes."
"Deserved a higher position."
"Perhaps." The straight bat. Always the straight bat, ready for even an
unusual delivery, which surely was coming.
A pause preceded it. Then, "I need a favour, Lionel."
"I can't come in. Not today."
"I know. I understand. I lost my mother last year. I understand. But we're
going to lose the vote."
"I doubt it."
"The numbers look reliable. We need another nine."
Nine. A familiar number. "I wish I could help."
"There'll be a leader****p contest. Weir will call it."
"Stalking horse."
"Yes."
"What do you want from me?"
"I need you to back me. I need you to promise me you won't stand."
"My father...."
"I know. But it has to be now. I'm sorry. I need to put your promise in
the
machine. If people know you won't stand, there might not even be a
contest."
Humphrey held the phone to his chest. The strategy had collapsed, that was
clear. So where to now?
If he gave his word and went back on it, he could not win a general
election
even if he won the leader****p. His character would be stained. He would be
forever known as the man who ultimately lost the party power after eight
years, who fumbled when his peers had shown such determination and
courage.
The alternative was to be seen as the party man, another of the best
leaders
the country never had.
He lifted the phone again. "I'll want a reshuffle before November," he
said.
"Placing you where?"
"Foreign secretary."
"Done."
Humphrey took a deep breath. It was better to achieve something rather
than
nothing. Ambition was the art of the possible. "I'll always have your
back,
Basil", he said. "I've been in your corner for forty years. I'm not going
to
walk away now."
He dropped the phone into his pocket. Above the garden, the sun was high.
Across it, his shadow was short and blunt.
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