Bertie and the Kinky Politician (7 page)

That one hadn't survived for long. There'd been a short but lively campaign of civil dissent described by the populace as “inventive” and by the Government as “unfair” involving bombarding every politician – whether minister, MP or local councillor – with a barrage of eggs whenever they summoned up the courage to appear in public. The British Egg Industry Council, themselves subject to swingeing cuts to their grant, were so delighted their products had found new use as a medium of political change that they proudly printed “Democracy in Action” on each egg beneath the famous Lion Quality mark.

The Government had not yet been forgiven and there remained a great deal of good old British simmering over that little debacle. Even James, as innocuous and pleasant a politician as ever lived, had not escaped and got pelted on several occasions. ‘I'm sure things will pick up. The public has a notoriously short memory span.' James's confidence was merely for the benefit of his companion. In his own experience the electorate had an elephantine memory, especially in Gloucester. There was no fault to be found in their powers of recall, none at all, particularly if they felt they'd been abused, but then all governments were guilty of arrogantly underestimating the intelligence of the people who voted them into power. It always came as a profound shock when those same masses voted them out again with wonderfully cheerful indifference.

‘Thanks for the encouragement.' The PM seemed to be struggling with words. Not a good sign for a man noted for his concise oratorical skills. He tried a new tack. ‘James, you've been an MP for –?'

‘Fourteen years.' Fourteen bloody years! Thanks for remembering.

‘And got an excellent first at Cambridge.'

‘Actually, it was Durham.' James thought it best not to reveal he'd become an MP simply because, after leaving the City, he couldn't find anything else useful to do; accountancy degrees did that to you sometimes.

‘Er, quite. Anyway, I know you've worked quite happily at the MoD these past few years under Alan. You've done an excellent job and although it seems to the contrary, I've kept my eye on you.'

Now James knew he was being thrown a yarn. Sharples, and particularly Austerly, were being groomed for greater things. It was generally acknowledged Austerly would replace Alan when he finally retired and departed for the glorious upland pastures of the House of Lords. James didn't like being patronised and showed his irritation sufficiently for even the PM to notice, but it would be an outrage to call him a liar, and because the PM knew James knew this, and because James knew that the PM knew he knew this, neither men wished to expose the lie. Thankfully, by wary mutual consent, the ethical conundrum passed and the conversation moved on into smoother waters.

‘It's a pleasant duty to give praise where it's due. Unfortunately, as head of the government, I'm also called upon to occasionally chastise my ministers.'

James stared stony-faced. Celeste! How the hell did the bastards find out? He looked ruin in the face and felt his insides gradually drain away. It was a horrible feeling. Media interest was now guaranteed; hounding of disgraced officials was a national sport. He only hoped that Celeste would be spared and was consoled by the fleeting thought that Bertie would sort them out.

‘… And that's why I had to make the decision,' concluded the PM. He waited for James to respond.

‘I'm sorry, what did you say?' Shock at the discovery of his idiosyncratic peccadilloes had deafened him to the last few sentences. The PM misunderstood his confusion.

‘Yes, stunning news, isn't it, but I'd no choice – Sharples and Austerly had to walk! No two ways about it. Alan's resigned as well as a matter of principle, but that's merely cleared the path for him to take up his peerage.'

‘A – Austerly? Sharples? W-what? Who? Did you –? Do you mean? You did what?' James dithered magnificently. It was truly of an Olympic standard. He was a man who could easily represent his country at international level.

‘MI5 unearthed evidence of minor financial irregularities in MoD appropriations for equipment supplied by companies who have tenuous but definite connections with our two colleagues. The press got wind of it and there's a special Panorama next Monday. I've been forced to distance them from the Government.'

‘You've sacked them! You've actually sacked them!' exclaimed James with incredulity. Ministers didn't lose their jobs if the financial irregularities were ‘minor' or if the links were ‘tenuous'. No way. They stuck to their careers like iron-hard dingleberries cemented to a Welsh sheep's bushy bum! This was
major
. As in indictable.

‘Can't get much more distant than that,' said the PM with a cheery smile. ‘Damned bad luck though, especially for Austerly. However, their misfortune is to your advantage.'

‘How do you mean?' James recovered enough from his shock to sense the imminent arrival of the Crap Express on Platform Three.

‘Well, the Ministry of Defence has had no Secretary of State since half past nine this morning. In fact, it has no minister of any significance – apart from you. That's an intolerable situation which needs to be rectified immediately. Your steady work within the department has made you the natural choice of successor. If you want it, James, it's yours!'

There was a faint roaring in James's ears. Something unusual was happening to his breathing. He suddenly envisaged hordes of desperate refugees stumbling in panic from the battlefields of Kent before invading European Union armies – inevitably led by the grinning French, happy at last to be back revisiting the fields they'd first trod in 1066 – then had a fleeting vision of his own face covered in blobs of desiccated orange vomit as he struggled out of a Typhoon on legs no longer connected to the rest of his body. He went a ghastly shade of grey. His mouth worked but nothing immediately recognisable as English slipped from paralysed lips. ‘Uuuhh. I –'

The PM slapped him on the shoulder in a comradely fashion. ‘Good, I knew you'd be up to it.' He gave James no choice. ‘Take the rest of the day to settle in and meet the top brass – I'm sure they'll remember who you are – then come to Cabinet tomorrow. We'll start making the necessary adjustments lower down the pecking order and bring in a few new names off the back-benches to fill the other posts. If I may make a suggestion, why not begin by concentrating on something you're familiar with and have a stab at maximising financial efficiency? I'm sure you'll be a dab hand at achieving all sorts of savings. Go as far as you like, burrow into the department, I'm sure there's all sorts of obscure administrative positions in there we don't need any more, so squeeze out some of the excess and I promise anything saved will be spent on lots of shiny new equipment. You have my full support in whatever you do, so there's an easy task you can get your teeth into straight away.'

‘But –'

‘Now don't you worry about a thing, old boy. We'll take care of the details and press release. I'll get my team to run up something for your first speech in the House. I want you to think of this as a great opportunity. Congratulations, James. You're on the front bench!'

It was a shell-shocked and totally overwhelmed James who staggered out of the front door and on to the pavement again, ejected like a disorientated reveller from a closing nightclub. Mercifully, none of the media noticed his glazed expression and stumbling footsteps.

‘Goodbye, sir – and well done.' The policeman's deferential attitude couldn't have been more contrary to his earlier indifference. James was stunned. Holy Mother of God – news travelled fast in that place!

Meanwhile, back inside No. 10, the PM sat at his desk again with chin cupped in one palm and a pained look on his face. That had gone as well as could be expected. Timbrill was obviously totally unsuitable for the job, but the speed with which the changes had been forced on him required prompt action. Never be seen to hesitate; that was interpreted as a sign of weakness, even if the decision was wrong. No matter. He'd let loose the terminally confused James on the Chiefs of Staff with a remit to cut costs. The two forces should neatly cancel each other out and so produce a period of satisfactory inaction, then Timbrill would be quietly dropped from the Cabinet after the next election. Assuming it was won, of course. The PM stirred uncomfortably at the possibility of defeat. That was the only bad point about his job – its continuation depended entirely on the most fickle of electorates. The egg campaign was still fresh in his memory.

The biggest difficulty was going to be grooming a suitable long-term replacement from the back-benches. Timbrill was obviously honest, amiable, and pleasant, but far too much of a lightweight for such an important post. He lacked the killer instinct, a rather important qualification when one considered the job, but no matter. He was just about capable enough to run the ministry on a day-to-day basis and that was all the PM was after. Besides, any crisis would entail the immediate involvement of the entire Cabinet and their collective decisions would determine policy: decisions Timbrill would no doubt be relieved to follow without question.

Nonetheless, a successor-in-waiting needed to be found, and fast. Sure, there were several eminently capable MPs who had wide-ranging experience, good contacts and plenty of drive and intelligence. Unfortunately, they all belonged to the Opposition. The premier sighed. His own ranks were woefully devoid of talent nowadays, which in a way was partly his own fault. In true dictatorial style, he had kept the rest weak to make himself look strong, but occasionally this led to recruiting problems. If only Austerly hadn't mucked up, but the man had committed
the
cardinal sin in politics – he'd been caught!

There was a subdued knock and a portly man glided into the room like a silent, impassive hovercraft, his corpulent figure dressed in a top-class Savile Row three-piece.

‘Everything satisfactory, sir?'

‘I suppose so.' There was a note of hopeless resignation in the PM's voice.

‘Come now, it was all you could have hoped for. We are now fully involved in a damage limitation exercise that will stretch us to the limit. Messrs Austerly and Sharples really were most indiscreet, but I shall do my best to protect them from prosecution.'

‘Thanks, Hugo.'

‘I suppose we can be grateful for one thing.'

The PM looked up. ‘Yes?'

‘I doubt if you'll have to call on my services regarding the ingenuous Mr Timbrill. I've the results of a preliminary appraisal. Do you wish a summary?'

‘So long as it's quick.'

‘Oh, it is. Painfully so.' Both men grinned. Hugo Chaplain chose his words with precision. He knew the PM liked that – his boss was a man weaned on sound bites. ‘In addition to your own personal knowledge of the man and also what is on public record, I can add the following few snippets. The newest member of your Cabinet has recently discharged his mortgage on a surprisingly modest London flat and continues to maintain a family country cottage in his North Gloucester constituency. He owns two cars, one an old Sunbeam sportster. It also appears he still occasionally motorcycles, an activity which I find extraordinarily surprising for a man of his age.'

The PM sat back with fingers laced behind his head and regarded that last statement with sour antipathy. Hugo was a man who, as a result of an almost spherical rotundity, eschewed all forms of activity with the condescending distaste of one entirely incapable of any physical exertion. It was the very worst form of inverted snobbery and the premier didn't appreciate Chaplain's witty little comment at all. He often wished he himself was still sprightly enough to play rugby again, to bite the odd ear or twist a few inadvisably exposed testicles in the ruck. Those were the days, when a man's prowess was measured by the quantity of beer he could sink or the way he could skilfully evacuate the post-match showers with a truly noxious fart! Consequently, he thought rather well of James and the fact he could still do something as youthfully foolish as motorcycling.

Chaplain droned on. ‘He inquired about becoming a name at Lloyd's, but fortunately could not raise the capital and so escaped certain financial disaster by the skin of his teeth. Despite that, as you would expect from a man of reasonable financial competence, he has a useful portfolio of shares, exclusively British, that make a small but significant contribution to his income, and the sum total of liquid cash held or invested in national institutions stands at a trifle under three hundred thousand.'

‘Is that all?' The Prime Minister was genuinely surprised.

‘Not all your ministers are acolytes of creative accounting.'

‘That was uncalled for.'

‘I apologise,' replied Chaplain suavely. He liked planting barbs that hurt. ‘We're checking to see if there are any foreign interests, but our initial searches suggest Timbrill's financial tastes are entirely patriotic.'

‘What about the Members' Interests Register?'

‘Squeaky clean and in rude health.'

‘His constituency?'

‘You already know he's one of your more popular MPs. The local party chairman has nothing but praise. Politically, Gloucester is a good, loyal city, or at least our half of it is, but a place to avoid if possible.'

‘How so?'

‘Apart from its very fine cathedral, certainly one of the best ever built but now no doubt surrounded by a car park, I hear it has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. Generations of myopically poor town planners appear to have effectively removed whatever charm it once had through a combination of stunted imagination and a misplaced enthusiasm for concrete.'

‘Have you been there?'

‘I don't have to,' replied Hugo with a dismissive sniff.

‘Then you don't know what you're talking about, do you,' snapped the PM testily. He really wasn't in the mood for Chaplain's conceited pomposity.