was Paul, sure enough, craning forward among the ranks of partygoers, and seizing the Prime Minister by the shoulder as he moved among his political colleagues, backslapping and glad-handing them. Paul managed to hold his gaze for a couple of seconds, and in the Prime Ministerâs eyes during that time there was visible confusion, not to mention a complete failure of recognition.
âWell done, Paul!â Sheila was calling out to the television. âYou got in there. You made your mark.â
âBugger!â Colin shouted, and rushed towards the TV cabinet. âI forgot to put the video on. Bugger, bugger, bugger!â
Twenty minutes later, when the singing was over and the River of Fire had fizzled out in a most disappointing fashion, the telephone rang. It was Benjaminâs sister Lois, calling from Yorkshire.
âTheyâve been letting off fireworks in the back garden,â Colin reported back to the rest of the family. âThey had all the neighbors round. The whole street joined in, apparently.â He sank back down into his armchair and took another sip of wine. âTwo thousand,â he said, wonderingly, sighing and puffing out his cheeks. âI never thought Iâd live to see it.â
Sheila Trotter went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea.
âI donât know,â she muttered as she left, talking to no one in particular. âIt doesnât really feel any different to me.â
Benjamin returned to his computer, and discovered that, so far, his files were unaffected, and the calendar had clicked over to 01-01-2000 without a murmur of complaint. But he continued with the task of backing up anyway. As he did so, he remembered that, almost thirty years ago, he used to do his homework at this same table, in this same house, with his parents sitting on the same furniture in front of the television. Benjaminâs companions then had been his brother and sister, rather than his wife and sister-in-lawâbut that was hardly a radical change, was it? It was not as if his life had been transformed in the intervening three decades.
He took the mug of tea from his motherâs outstretched hand and thought, No, youâre right. It doesnât feel any different.
27
Paul Trotter, at this stage in his career, was parliamentary private secretary to a minister at the Home Office. It was turning out to be an ambiguous and frustrating position. Traditionally, it was regarded as a rung on the ladder towards genuine ministerial office; but in the meantime, Paul found himself consigned to an unobtrusive and restricted role, which involved mainly liaising between his minister and the backbenchers. He was not allowed to speak to journalists on matters relating to his department; was not encouraged, in fact, to speak to them at all. But Paul had not entered politics in order to work behind the scenes. He had viewsâstrong views, most of which coincided with the mainstream of his partyâs thinkingâand he was inclined to express them, whenever the opportunity arose. Whereas many of the younger, more inexperienced Labour MPs would scurry away at the sight of a reporter or a microphone, Paul had already acquired a reputation as someone who would talk and more often than not say something quotable. The broadsheet editors had started phoning him with requests for occasional columns, and lobby correspondents would actively seek him out to pass comment on newsworthy topics: even (or perhaps especially) those in which he had no particular expertise.
Paul was not naive about this, all the same. He knew that journalists would like nothing better than to catch him off his guard. He knew that the people who had voted him in had certain expectations of a Labour administration, and that many of his own personal convictions, if he were to state them frankly and publicly, would have shocked them, inspired them with a profound sense of disquiet and betrayal. He had
âWell done, Paul!â Sheila was calling out to the television. âYou got in there. You made your mark.â
âBugger!â Colin shouted, and rushed towards the TV cabinet. âI forgot to put the video on. Bugger, bugger, bugger!â
Twenty minutes later, when the singing was over and the River of Fire had fizzled out in a most disappointing fashion, the telephone rang. It was Benjaminâs sister Lois, calling from Yorkshire.
âTheyâve been letting off fireworks in the back garden,â Colin reported back to the rest of the family. âThey had all the neighbors round. The whole street joined in, apparently.â He sank back down into his armchair and took another sip of wine. âTwo thousand,â he said, wonderingly, sighing and puffing out his cheeks. âI never thought Iâd live to see it.â
Sheila Trotter went into the kitchen to put the kettle on for some tea.
âI donât know,â she muttered as she left, talking to no one in particular. âIt doesnât really feel any different to me.â
Benjamin returned to his computer, and discovered that, so far, his files were unaffected, and the calendar had clicked over to 01-01-2000 without a murmur of complaint. But he continued with the task of backing up anyway. As he did so, he remembered that, almost thirty years ago, he used to do his homework at this same table, in this same house, with his parents sitting on the same furniture in front of the television. Benjaminâs companions then had been his brother and sister, rather than his wife and sister-in-lawâbut that was hardly a radical change, was it? It was not as if his life had been transformed in the intervening three decades.
He took the mug of tea from his motherâs outstretched hand and thought, No, youâre right. It doesnât feel any different.
27
Paul Trotter, at this stage in his career, was parliamentary private secretary to a minister at the Home Office. It was turning out to be an ambiguous and frustrating position. Traditionally, it was regarded as a rung on the ladder towards genuine ministerial office; but in the meantime, Paul found himself consigned to an unobtrusive and restricted role, which involved mainly liaising between his minister and the backbenchers. He was not allowed to speak to journalists on matters relating to his department; was not encouraged, in fact, to speak to them at all. But Paul had not entered politics in order to work behind the scenes. He had viewsâstrong views, most of which coincided with the mainstream of his partyâs thinkingâand he was inclined to express them, whenever the opportunity arose. Whereas many of the younger, more inexperienced Labour MPs would scurry away at the sight of a reporter or a microphone, Paul had already acquired a reputation as someone who would talk and more often than not say something quotable. The broadsheet editors had started phoning him with requests for occasional columns, and lobby correspondents would actively seek him out to pass comment on newsworthy topics: even (or perhaps especially) those in which he had no particular expertise.
Paul was not naive about this, all the same. He knew that journalists would like nothing better than to catch him off his guard. He knew that the people who had voted him in had certain expectations of a Labour administration, and that many of his own personal convictions, if he were to state them frankly and publicly, would have shocked them, inspired them with a profound sense of disquiet and betrayal. He had
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