Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Read online

  A kind gesture, and despite my reservations, it would be remiss of me to decline.

  “Thank you, Rosa.”

  “My pleasure, and I promise it’ll make your life easier. Leave your old phone with me before you go to your meeting and I’ll transfer everything over.”

  It feels like saying goodbye to an old friend as I hand over my antiquated relic of a phone.

  “Now that’s sorted, we’d better crack on.”

  Rosa then plucks her own phone from a jacket pocket and jabs the screen with an elegant finger. She then lists the various meetings and obligations I have scheduled throughout the day; varying from tedious to mind-numbingly dull. I politely nod and check each appointment against my own diary, silently praying I haven’t missed anything and inadvertently supplied the kindling for Rosa’s diary burning threat.

  Once the diary is checked and I’ve been furnished with a pile of manila folders, we move on to the next order of the day — sorting through the never-ending correspondence. My mind begins to wander as Rosa churns through a raft of letters and memos, requesting a response to each one. We now have this task down to a fine art and Rosa, efficient as always, takes responsibility for the lion’s share. There are a few, however, which require my input.

  “Dinner invitation from Martin Faversham.”

  “Tell him I’m busy until Christmas.”

  Rosa scribbles something on the letter and moves to the next item.

  “A request for you to attend the opening of a new media suite at Marshburton High School next month.”

  “What on earth is a media suite?”

  “I’ll tell them you’ll be there,” Rosa replies without seeking my consent. “You might learn something.”

  “Fine,” I groan. “Next.”

  Rosa churns through another dozen demands on my precious time. I reluctantly agree to seven of them and notes are scribbled to make excuses for the rest.

  “And one final item: a request for a meeting from Dominic Hassard.”

  “Who?”

  “Your estate agent in Hampshire.”

  “Oh, him. What does he want?”

  “The lease on Hansworth Hall expires next month. I believe the tenants want to renew.”

  “Just tell him to renew it on the same terms.”

  Hansworth Hall has been the home of the Huxley family since 1808. A grand regency house sited within ten acres of formal gardens, it was purchased by my fourth great-grandfather, Thomas Huxley. He made his fortune during the industrial revolution and cemented his place amongst the landed gentry. On Thomas’s death, the house passed to his son, Augustus, before it tumbled down the family tree to my father, and eventually, me. I am now the seventh generation of Huxley to own Hansworth Hall, although I haven’t stepped foot in the place for over twenty years.

  It would be fair to say I have a love-hate relationship with our family home. I love the architecture, the history, and the beautiful grounds, but I detest so much else about the place. I was an only child, and with no nearby neighbours, I would wander around the grounds with just my own thoughts for company. Then my mother passed away when I was fourteen, and my father decided it would be better for me to board at school. I hoped to escape the loneliness but it followed me for my remaining years of school, and beyond to university.

  After university, and much to my father’s disgust, I chose to volunteer at a mission in Uganda. I still recall the ferocious argument which ensued after I told him of my career plans — an argument which culminated in three years of estrangement. Our relationship had deteriorated to such a degree, he didn’t even tell me he’d been diagnosed with Alzheimer's. I was twenty-four when I received a call from his doctor — told by a stranger that my father had died.

  I spent three weeks back in Marshburton, with little desire to return and take up permanent residence at Hansworth Hall. I was as alone as I’d ever been, and to make matters worse, I faced a significant inheritance tax demand. I had no option other than to auction most of the contents and rent the place out.

  I returned to Uganda and tried to put Hansworth Hall out of my mind. The loneliness came with me and even today, it has never really gone away.

  “I hope you don’t mind, William, but I took the liberty of looking at the current lease.”

  “I neither mind, nor care.”

  “You do realise the tenants are paying significantly less than the full market value?”

  I let a lazy gaze drift over her head while sipping tea, in the hope she gets the message. She doesn’t.

  “I have a few contacts in the property business, from my time at Stephens & Marland. Surely it’s worth your while exploring other avenues before you commit?”

  Rosa looks at me, expectantly. I know she’s only trying to help but I really couldn’t care less about finding a new tenant, irrespective of any potential rent increase. I don’t need the money, and the current tenants have never caused me any bother.

  But, those big cinnamon-brown eyes.

  “Okay,” I sigh. “I’ll leave it with you.”

  A wide smile breaks across her face. “I appreciate your faith in me, William. I won’t let you down.”

  With that, she scoops up the pile of papers and heads back to her desk. I breathe in her sweet perfume and without thinking, sneak a glance as she shimmies away.

  Delusional fool.

  I gather my things and head off to the first appointment of the day.

  3.

  You can spot a new member of the house within seconds. They are like the new intake at school; full of innocent wonder, and fear. Even after ten years, I can still appreciate the former, although I have little patience for the latter. The Palace of Westminster, or Houses of Parliament as commonly labelled, possesses an architectural gravitas few buildings in the world can match. It is more than just the structure though; it is the weight of responsibility placed upon those sent to conduct the business of democracy. It is said that a man tired of walking these corridors is a man tired of service. It may, in these times of gender equality, be an obsolete quote, but the point remains valid.

  “Excuse me,” a portly man, clearly flustered, says as he steps into my path.

  “Yes?”

  “I, um, seem to have lost my bearings,” he replies awkwardly while stealing a glance at his watch. “I’m looking for the conference hall.”

  I look him up and down. His crumpled, off-the-peg suit and polyester tie do him no credit.

  “You’re new here?” I ask.

  “Second week.”

  “And you’d like me to give you directions?”

  “Well, yes… please.”

  “And what’s in it for me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  I offer a wry smile. “Quid pro quo.”

  His confusion appears to mount as his mouth falls open. No words follow.

  “Your Latin a little rusty?”

  “I never studied Latin.”

  “A favour or advantage granted in return for something. It’s how this place functions; a fact you should be mindful of.”

  “Um, okay…”

  I have no time to tease him any further and point him in the right direction. He might well be a few seconds late for his meeting, but I hope the lesson proves adequate compensation.

  I watch him waddle off and shake my head when he immediately takes a wrong turn. I conclude he won’t last — this is no place for those of an indecisive disposition, or cheap suits for that matter. Maybe I’ll keep an eye out for him; try to steer the poor fellow in the right direction.

  I continue on my way.

  My first meeting of the day is with the Chief Whip, Nigel Naylor. A career politician, Nigel is several years my senior, and thinks himself something of a charmer, particularly with the ladies. I don’t care much for the man — he is a bully and a blaggard, although one might argue both are necessary characteristics for a man in his position.

  The job of Chief Whip is to ensure we, the elected members,
toe the party line when votes are cast in the house. If a bill is put forward, the cabinet will decide upon a position, and we are encouraged to vote in accordance with that position. Nigel Naylor is the one to administer that encouragement, by fair means or foul.

  I reach his office and knock at the oak door.

  “Enter,” a voice booms.

  I open the door to an office far grander than mine. Not that it bothers me, but there is a pecking order to the allocation of offices here at Westminster. New arrivals, like the chap seeking directions, are housed in glorified broom cupboards, while the so-called ‘Big Beasts’ — long-serving members whose authority and reputation proceeds them — enjoy suites with views of the Thames. The Chief Whip is one of the biggest, and most fearsome of beasts to prowl the corridors of power, and afforded an office to match such status.

  “Ah, William. Thanks for popping by.”

  As if I had a choice.

  Nigel offers me a seat on a wooden chair — one I suspect he deliberately chose because it offers little in the way of comfort.

  “What can I do for you, Nigel?”

  There is no point in any pretence. Nobody is ever summoned to Nigel’s office unless he wants something.

  “The greenfield bill,” he replies, leaning back in his leather chair.

  “What about it?”

  “It goes to the house next week and I wanted to check we’re all on the same page.”

  “And what page is that?”

  “The one that begins with a yes vote,” he replies with a thin smile.

  The bill in question contains legislation which would allow the building of new homes on certain greenfield sites. Essentially, it’s a charter to turn parts of our countryside into sprawling housing estates, and I am vehemently against it.

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I’m not on the same page, Nigel. I don’t think I’m even reading the same book.”

  “Oh, I see. Perhaps I can encourage you to be a little more forward thinking?”

  With vast swathes of my constituency situated within the greenbelt, I was always going to be steadfastly opposed to the bill. With that, it is no surprise I’ve been singled out for Nigel’s attention.

  “If I vote for this bill, Nigel, I’ll be lynched the next time I step foot in Marshburton.”

  He sits forward and rests his elbows on the desk. “I might be able to help you with that.”

  And so it begins.

  Before he utters another word, I know Nigel will now offer me something to take back to my constituents — a small token to sugar the pill, if you will. This is how the political system works. Every time somebody gets what they want, others will pay a price to some degree. Failing that, a muddy middle ground is established where nobody loses and nobody wins, and very little is achieved. A colleague once suggested it’s much like walking into a shop and asking for a pullover in either blue or red, and leaving with a purple hat that doesn’t quite fit. No decision made here is ever universally popular so we spend an inordinate amount of time analysing the least unpopular option and hope enough of the electorate agrees with it. There will always be casualties, and today, the good people of Marshburton are in Nigel’s sights.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Affordable homes.”

  “What about them?”

  “We’re looking to launch a pilot scheme to help first time buyers, and I’m sure I can convince the housing minister to trial it in your constituency.”

  “Which would suggest you first need to build some houses?”

  “Correct.”

  “So let me get this straight. You want me to convince my constituents that allowing a housing estate to be built in the middle of open countryside is a price worth paying so first time buyers can get on the property ladder a little easier?”

  “Yes, although I’d hope you’ll frame it a little more positively, William.”

  “They won’t buy it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no matter how much a handful of first time buyers might like the idea of subsidised housing, the majority don’t want a scaled down version of Basingstoke built on their doorstep.”

  “What’s wrong with Basingstoke?”

  “Ever been there?”

  “No.”

  “I rest my case.”

  He sits back in his chair, presumably pondering his next move. It’s quick to come.

  “So, you won’t even float the idea to them?”

  “I can’t. No.”

  “That’s a shame, William. The PM had high hopes this might be an opportunity for you to show you’re a team player. She’s had her eye on you; thinks you have potential.”

  There are three stages in any negotiation with Nigel. Stage one is where you’re offered something as a subtle bribe, although it’s usually nowhere near adequate recompense for what you’re being asked to give up. Stage two is where you’re offered a career carrot, attached to a stick of indeterminable length. And stage three is just blatant threats.

  We’ve now entered stage two.

  “I am a team player, Nigel, but my constituents are as much part of my team as the party are.”

  He frowns, and the mask of civility slips.

  “Your father wouldn’t have thought twice. He’d have seen the bigger picture, been the bigger man.”

  A low blow, but one I’ve faced countless times. No matter what I do, it seems I’m destined to remain in my father’s shadow.

  “I hate to break it to you, Nigel, but my father is dead. What he may or may not have done in this situation is therefore academic.”

  A slight twitch of his upper lip signifies we’re about to enter stage three.

  “There’s nothing I can do, or offer, to make you vote in favour?”

  “Nothing. Sorry.”

  The problem Nigel has with stage three, at least in my case, is there are no threats he can levy. There are some in this house who are motivated by their thirst for power or career advancement. Threaten to take away that power, or pull a few rungs from the career ladder, and most will yield to Nigel’s wishes. My motivations lie beyond his grasp.

  “Your loss,” he spits. “Shut the door on your way out.”

  His expression is that of a schoolyard bully, offered a tuna paste sandwich in lieu of lunch money — there is no threat where there is no fear of loss.

  I do as instructed.

  As I wander back to my office, a familiar feeling resurfaces — guilt. Not for the way I dealt with Nigel, but the issue itself. Our country is in desperate need of more housing and countless governments of every hue have struggled to address the problem. I wish I had an answer but I don’t, and that is my frustration. I can argue that we shouldn’t build homes in the countryside, but where do you build them?

  But housing is not the only national issue to permanently remain on every government’s agenda. There’s the evergreen problem of funding the Health Service, social care, defence, transport, policing, and education. Then there’s the environment, trade, immigration, security, taxation, and the vast complexities of extracting ourselves from the European Union. A raft of monolithic issues; each one so cumbersome that a change of direction, even by the odd degree, requires almost generational patience. No government has a generation to make a difference so all we can do is set the direction of travel and hope to make some headway; until the next government is appointed and another path is set. It’s no wonder we seem to go around in circles.

  And that is why, more often than not, I feel completely useless. I do miss my voluntary work. The times I could make a tangible and immediate difference to the lives of others. You help dig a well and see clean water flow from a tap. You toil to construct a prefabricated classroom and hear children learn to read. You assist with administering simple medicines and watch the sick get better. Perhaps self-indulgent, but you get the chance to see your efforts rewarded. I can’t say I get that same gratification when voting for the renewal of our nucl
ear arsenal.

  But here I am. Still.

  A question asked by many, and of myself, is why I don’t just pack it all in and return to my voluntary work. The only answer I can offer is duty. Not to my constituents, not to my colleagues, or even my party — I have a duty to my father. After our argument, I returned to Africa without closure. Our mutual stubbornness ensured we never got the chance to heal our rift. My primary reason for being here is to try, in some way, to make amends by pursuing the career he hoped I’d pursue.

  It is a shame so many of my colleagues don’t understand my motivation, and wrongly assume I have the same political aspirations as my father. So, it remains a stick for the likes of Nigel Naylor to beat me with, albeit a hollow one. And in some way, it nicely sums up where twenty-first century politics is heading — a Punch & Judy show performed by caricatures. Pick a side and heckle, “That's the way to do it!” or “Oh no it isn’t!” Repeat ad infinitum until nobody knows what to believe.

  It’s not difficult to understand why the British public, on the whole, are now so disillusioned with politics.

  I, more than anyone, share that disillusion.

  4.

  “That was quick,” Rosa remarks as I stroll back into the office.

  “Brief, and strained.”

  Her eyebrows arch. “Have you upset the Chief Whip again, William?”

  “Possibly. He’ll get over it.”

  She moves across the office and stands in front of my desk as I take a seat.

  “Here,” she says, handing me a piece of notepaper. “You can fill the time before your next meeting by catching up on your calls.”

  I take the notepaper and inwardly groan at the long list of names, numbers, and Rosa’s accompanying notes.

  “I said you’d call Mrs Henderson first.”

  “Mrs Henderson?”

  “Nora Henderson, from Marshburton.”

  “Of course, yes. What does she want?”

  “Her husband passed away last week.”

  I’m genuinely shocked. “Oh dear. That’s terrible news.”

  Nora and Arthur Henderson are, or was in poor Arthur’s case, community stalwarts in Marshburton. Decent people with no pretensions.