This Honourable House by Edwina Currie Page B

would be accused of pragmatism, he had a feeling that this new untried government would not take it amiss. The answers to practical problems were seldom written on tablets of stone brought down a mountain by some bearded Moses. He would say so, firmly, but with a pleasant twinkle in his eyes.
    He might be quizzed, with a hostile edge, as to what he could offer when so many volunteers had slaved away, brought the party into Whitehall, and now needed employment? Wasn’t he a carpetbagger? If politics hadn’t grabbed him before when the party was suffering in opposition, why should it now? The answer was obvious, and true. He wanted to do something useful, and be of benefit to his fellow man. The possibility that a speech in Parliament, or a neatly crafted piece of legislation, could be of direct service to millions of citizens fascinated him. Nothing like that could be said of his appearances for this or that plc before a judge. Black Dog could be kept more easily at bay, Edward told himself, if he could justify his own existence. To do it in the shadow of a splendid woman like Diane Clark would add enormously to the savour.
    Edward rummaged in a drawer for the necessary papers. The references would follow. He wondered whether his birth certificate and other personal documents would be required, then decided against. There were – gaps. Some elements might need explanation, though it would be a harsh employer who refused him on those thin grounds. One aspect of Diane Clark that particularly appealed was that she seemed free of prejudice. Indeed, her reputation had been made fighting for equality for the downtrodden. She was exactly the sort of person who might sympathise.
    Edward warmed to the idea. He had never spoken about Black Dog to anyone, but perhaps Diane would understand. It wasn’t as if he had asthma, or epilepsy, or any other condition that in fairness he had to communicate to a potential boss. If the new post became his and met his expectations, his depression might be permanently put to flight. That alone was a strong reason to seek pastures new.
    And he would take this suit to the cleaner’s today, so that he would make the best impression. And buy a new tie. Diane was a single woman, feisty and energetic. His appearance, as a modest, passably handsome young man, might make the difference.
     
    ‘You really expect me to say all this?’ Frank Bridges got himself ready to explode. It was bad enough that he was to give the keynote speech at the Institute of Directors Annual Dinner. The audience would be well-heeled businessmen, and a few women, resolutely opposed to the new government and its philosophy. They had fought many of the most advanced ideas of the manifesto including the minimum wage, the windfall tax on utilities, the New Deal for the unemployed and membership of the euro. Getting the nation’s so-called entrepreneurs to embrace new thinking was God’s own job. Worse, the damn thing would be black tie, which he loathed. He was beginning to feel like a bloody penguin.
    ‘I wouldn’t mind quite so much,’ he prodded the page, ‘if it wasn’t such goddamn obscure twaddle. If I don’t understand it, I bet they won’t. It doesn’t say anything .’ The private secretary twisted his hands together. He was a thin grey man, in a charcoal grey suit, silvery grey tie, with greying hair and, Frank noticed grimly, pale grey eyes with a slight tic. It was as if all colour had been drained out of him along with his blood supply years ago, as a precondition of seniority in Whitehall. He writhed under Frank’s glare. ‘But, Secretary of State, that’s the whole idea.’
    Frank was bewildered. ‘You’ve just lost me entirely.’
    ‘It’s supposed to be obscure.’
    ‘Oh, is it? Why, in God’s name?’
    ‘Because it isn’t supposed to say anything.’
    Frank held his head in his hands. The open ministerial box was mute in its sympathy. His interlocutor pressed home his advantage.