PoW: Chapter 8: turning and turning
The banks approved both the personal transactions and the movement of the national investments. David read the reports summarized by the economic advisers and congratulated himself on dodging an overenthusiastic MP too eager for a cabinet post. He had no plans to reshuffle the cabinet.
It was still very early in the morning, the sky pallid with twilight as he changed into suit and tie. George’s needless worries had been bothering him, but David believed that he would come through once he realised that continuing the Coalition in its present form would gave them the catalyst needed to redefine the Conservative party. They both knew it was the only way for the party to survive. The transformation had been underway before the Thames Barrier was raised for the first time during this parliament.
It was Boris Johnson who worried him. He didn’t like the Lib-Dems. He didn’t like Nick. Rather, he liked Nick as long as it was party policy. It was better if he disliked Nick personally, but Boris liked everyone or perhaps he disliked everyone but acted he didn’t mind either way. It’s part of the charm; the puzzle surprises people into liking him, as if they thought his evident existential confusion reflected theirs and deserved a role in their own governance. Boris had explained it to him once a long time ago at university. Despite the election results won’t be out until the next day, he was confident like a man who had done it a thousand times before. “Two thousand years ago,” he had intoned, conveying the impression of a pipe-smoking don despite sitting sprawled on a couch. At the time, mercifully he had stopped there, sparing them from listening to one of his papers. He had been prevented, before.
David wouldn’t mind if some intrepid journalist could unearth those papers. Doubtless the man had moved on, but he knew his own had been telling of the embryonic politician. It would be useful, he reflected, if he knew which way Boris would move. Three years of impossible choices had distilled him into someone who made decisions regardless; he distrusted his own memories of Boris Johnson despite the inherent belief that they would all act for the benefit of the party.
The party incidentally, did not include Nick Clegg, who would’ve merited only a single thought if David had just won a little more or Brown had lost a little more in 2010. Well, David could be honest with himself and laugh at himself as well. Nick was still only one thought- one, encompassing continuous thought.
“Therefore we mourn-” he continued to edit the the speech for the memorial service, suppressing the urge to ring up Nick asking him to be awake with him. The heat was working. The room was abominably warm. The paragraphs seemed frozen with grief. Sheer misery infused every sentence and paragraph. He drafted it in the middle of the mercenary incursion, the aching wakefulness familiarly despairing. He had been putting off reading it. George had already pencilled in a comment about the difference between dourness and dignity. It would be better to start from the beginning.
After a while, his PA came in with his diary for the day. Steps and greetings filtered through the door when she opened and closed it. Then all was quiet and he was alone, surrounded by the vague hum of computers and his own thoughts until she came in again and turned on the TV.
He as too well-bred to talk to himself. He rang up Miliband. “I thought you could keep it quiet,” he said evenly. There was a small laugh at the other end.
“I am keeping it quiet,” Ed said, infuriatingly monotone.
“Kill it.”
“What do you think we’ve been trying to do? Balls is on a rampage. The leak is on your end, Cameron.” Finally, a note of impatience crept it. “What are you doing?”
“There’s no one-” He looked at the header in the memo attached to the report again. “I know who, but the thing can’t stay alive,” he said and hung up. Well, even he had assumed- Assumptions could be proven wrong. David Cameron could improvise and adapt.
Time to wake up.
-=-=
“If I asked you what is this world like, what would you say?”
“I hope that is a rhetorical question,” Nick smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were all tense. The story, as it was presented, looked damaging to the whole parliament. It was beyond what they had anticipated. There were accusations of fraud and swindling at the highest levels, accompanied by the damning evidence of the members of cabinet’s own financial security and the treasury’s belated accounting. David had looked ready to murder seeing his photos of Sam and the children on TV. George felt as if his universe had collapsed on itself.
“It should be an easy question,” Boris said, filling the air with words. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be in different parties.”
“I really don't have the time,” Nick said. He was ready to leave them. He couldn’t defend the Lib-Dems working at the Treasury. Vince Cable was conveniently ill at home. On the speakerphone, he denied all knowledge of the business. But his name, too, had been among those ignominiously connected to the whole wretched business. The papers had suddenly remembered that Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats, was now European commissioner for trade while retaining his post as Deputy Prime Minister. It was everything George had feared. The special dispensation was seen as a conspiracy between the members of the British government and the EU to accept whatever plan the EU would issue.
“You are agreeing then.” Boris was delighted.
Nick raised an eyebrow. “I really don’t think this is the time. I didn’t leak it to the press.” He departed, George turned on Boris.
“I can’t believe you let that get out.”
“Me? I didn’t even know about the business until this morning.”
“It’s not my people,” George argued, unconvinced. “Someone leaked it. For what? It wasn’t merely secret accounts. It wasn’t just journalists. Someone inside wrote the entire damned copy for them.”
“But why?” Boris asked, sounding genuinely mystified. “Even Ed Miliband’s people had been trying to stopper it as well. It doesn’t look good for anyone.”
“I don’t know, Boris.” George was at a loss. No one benefited from the knowledge. He had expected to meet with Peter later in the day to extract what he knew about Ed Miliband’s concessions to the Conservatives. It was clear that had been one. At least, he hoped there was. Labour MPs had been on the news spinning as quickly as their own people and it was barely noon.
-=-=
By two o’clock, Nick Clegg was chairing a meeting that was turning into a tribunal, though there was confusion regarding who were the accused. In fact, in the absence of an outright confession, they might as well be trying invisible men. Men, who were, nonetheless, making their presence felt from the press of cameras and microphones outside the Liberal-Democrat headquarters.
Vince had somehow dragged himself from bed and sat swaddled in scarves and coat opposite Nick. His advisors sat safe two seats from him. The weather was changing. The whole room was scented with warm lemon, but ill or well, every one of them looked feverish and sounded hoarse.
“I’m not trying to sabotage you,” Chris Huhne was saying, “but in the interest of truth, we do all have to admit that the Coalition government lost control of the money flowing in and out of the treasury in the aftermath of the floods. It got worse after the chancellor disappeared. It is a matter of record.”
“It is not a matter of record,” Vince responded, his voice harsh despite its weakness. “That is the problem, but there is no self-interest involved in using money we have to ensure this government remain afloat. What I fail to understand is why someone took upon themselves to blatantly discard what the entire Cabinet had agreed on and insinuate that this entire government was engaging in defrauding Britain. Of all the places we could be-” he was overtaken by a fit of violent coughing. Nick winced at the sound.
All the Cabinet ministers had denied any wrongdoing, but none of them knew the exact details of the policies as much as the papers seem to. The memos had came from the Treasury, which meant it was the Treasury who had supplied the press with the information. Both Lib-Dem and Tory clerks were under suspicion. Given the damage it could potentially cause, Nick half-expected someone to have came forward in self-righteous indignity. It was too deliberate to be mere mischief. The Reform Act had been so close in coming to its finalized form.
“It’s sheer wanton destruction,” he muttered. “And for what? Why disrupt the entire government?”
Ed Davey seemed agitated. Vince had started to wheeze. “Open the curtains,” he said. Before Nick could protest, there was a sudden strange scramble for the window.
The were meeting in one of the meeting rooms that opened toward an enclosed courtyard. It was impossible to know whether there were long-lenses watching them but no one appeared to have scaled the walls. Light poured in, fresh air cleansed the room, Nick took a deep breath, then noticed that many around him looked immensely sad.
“What is it” he asked, confused.
“No one is coming back.”
Nick didn’t recognize the voice and didn’t seek out the speaker. An ugly thought had occurred to him. “You mean it’s just us,” he said, sotto voce. “It can’t be. It is just not the right time yet,” he tried desperately.
The dream had been a shadow. He refused to believe it. Nick looked around at the faces surrounding him. It would’ve been childish to ask them whether they still believed that Normalcy was possible. He had came back. They had made all sacrifices. They must believe.
“So a few men’s despair is making fools of us all,” he said bitterly. “All our work had been for nothing.”
“If you’ve never known hope,” someone said, Nick glared, but she forged on, “If you are under thirty years old. Eight years, even four, is a very long time. There is no point in waiting. Despair or ambition, as long as we had been all inside it was safe.”
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. They had been going about it the wrong way. “There are people beyond government,” he pointed out.
“Not if your entire livelihood depended on politics and the current form seems no longer adequate. This is still a Tory led Coalition.”
“We don’t gave time for this,” Nick decided, livid. His sympathy for changing politics only stretched so far. “Either they all get help or they may all start considering alternative futures.”
“What about the truth?” someone protested.
“The truth is that we are making the best of the worst possible situation,” Nick answered. “We always have. The country is internally solvent and I am here because I believe in safeguarding this country.” He had been saying it all morning; saying it again almost sounded trite.
“Someone’s encouraging them,” Vince murmured. “Someone’s making promises.”
-=-=
Peter Mandelson was doing a great job of directing the attention to the change in season and the necessary and practical preparations people should and could undertake this year. It was a very mundane sort of directive, but the sheer novelty of him in the role seemed to be adequately distracting that interviews concerning the implications of EU’s role in Britain’s affairs usually became derailed without the host noticing.
“Spell-binding,” David heard George commenting once, seemingly without irony, then, with more intent and more significantly, seeing David standing there, “and on our side for the moment.”
David couldn’t pretend to know what George and Peter Mandelson discussed. Boris, temporarily shocked by the scandal into inaction, had been agitating less as the 1922 Committee was frantically reviewing itself and now deeply suspicious of anyone who wished for change. There would be no more discussion of a leadership contest for a time. David was making sure of that.
Being written subtly into the Act of Parliament was also a new tax system that comforted the
Conservatives. It would irritate the Lib-Dems and likely anger Labourites when they learn of it.
“Don’t tell Peter Mandelson,” he warned George when they finished the final version.
“I’m not planning to-” He realised what David implied. “And when are you telling Nick?” he asked smoothly.
David tapped the table and hesitated. “There’s no reason to tell him yet.”
“Who was it that told me that our Coalition partners has a right to know policy decisions before we announce them?” The sarcasm was thick. “Furthermore, you are letting Nick announce it. You’re wrapping it into an Act that needs to pass. Breathtaking, David.” He seemed to struggle for the next sentence, “You know I don’t want to say anything.”
“But you will.” David sighed, and braced himself.
“I hope you know what you are gambling with. Your affair with Nick is your own business, you might even be prepared for a revelation that goes against all conservative moral values, but this all might come to grief at any time.”
“I’m separating the personal from the political,” he smiled wryly, “I’m taking your advise.”
“David, you are not reasonable when it comes to Nick Clegg,” George said. “Most people can, but you cannot. I hope you know what you are doing.”
“I always do.” And it was true. David always did even though when he thought he hadn’t known enough. He at least knew his own reasons and motivations. Compromises were difficult in the best of times; letting the more left of the Lib-Dems scramble for a response was a matter of policy. He would let Nick know, but not until necessary. As for Ed Miliband- Labour would have a cause to rally behind.
He explained this to George in bits and pieces in the ensuing days, who remained deeply skeptical but finally shrugged and said philosophically that only the inevitable happened and “You don’t own him your confessions.”
It was unfortunately the wrong thing to say and ended the conversation abruptly. They were both suddenly aware now that none of them owe anyone his confessions, except the vaguely nebulous electorate presently preparing for Winter and being entertained by spin doctors at their most theatrical.
Ed Miliband had told David before how much he disliked it. He disliked Peter Mandelson, too, for no clear reason David knew except for reasons of history.
"By the way, do you know what is a knight's tour?" David asked.
"Why, some cartoonist at it again?” George frowned. They were never flattering toward the Tories and often obscene when depicting him. “I thought they've stopped with that nonsense.”
"Not that,” David said. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Edward Miliband’s humour was never very direct.
"It's a mathematical problem which a knight must go through a course through every position on the board," one of the George’s advisers said as she stood up, looking as if she was barely suppressing laughter.
“An obstacle course?” George asked.
“A knight on a chess board,” she clarified.
Of course, trust Ed to make chess allusions.
"Are you taking up the game?" Nick asked innocently.
“I’m not taking further maths,” David replied, annoyed. There was a joke in there, probably at his expense as well.
"Well, I shouldn't ask Ed for a game of chess if I were you.”
David thought he was imagining things, but everyone looked as shocked as he was.
“He is very good,” David Miliband, strode in, slim and smiling, “I hope I'm not interrupting.”
Beside him, Nick let out a sound very like a growl. David tensed. He didn’t remember an appointment with this Miliband. He aimed for levity, “I hope no one saw you coming in.”
“You are not expecting me,” David Miliband seemed a little uncertain at the reception.
“I am,” George said. He turned toward David. “Perhaps you’ll listen to him if not to me.”
“About what?” Nick inquired. It wasn’t clear to whom he was directing the question.
“How did you arrive?”
“Oh, I came by ship,” said David Miliband, “courtesy of a mutual friend.”
Nick said, “Let me guess? Lord Mandelson?” The other man nodded. “Why are you here?”
“For the Memorial Service,” Miliband lied smoothly and needlessly, “and to tell you that the News Corporation is backing your government.”
“We expected it,” said David stiffly, flicking his eyes toward Nick, who hated the reminder of Rupert Murdoch’s involvement, but Miliband’s smile only broadened.
“There is a new condition. You would have to back mine as well.”
He digested this information carefully. Then Nick repeated his question.
“Passing of parliamentary act has always required a vote,” Nick said dryly after Miliband responded.
“But if the writing of the parliamentary act involved all three parties, what then? What is the alternative to a disagreement? What then?”
And echoed inside David’s head was Nick’s voice, once upon a time before he left: But louder sang Plato’s ghost, “What then?”
He caught his lover’s eye. “Our work is not yet done.”
-=-=
The memorial service for the fallen was well attended. Afterwards, it became conveniently crowded. Uniformed in black wool coat and dark suit, a poppy pinned upon the breast, one man was much the same as another.
“The Winters get worse every year.”
“Do they?” asked George, sarcastic, shivering a little. He wanted to be inside. There was frost on the windows in the morning.
“The oceans are too warm, Siberia has too much snow, and too much sun are reflected off. The mass of cold air grows every year, sweeping across Europe. Cold Winters and rising waterlines, that’s what we’ve come to.”
George was sick of conversations about the weather. Ed Miliband was more tiring than he remembered.
“No one’s looking forward to snow,” said Nick beside him, who had always looked forward to snow for as long as George knew him.
“A whole country at a standstill...” Ed’s voice faded as the car stopped. George had never been inside the Labour headquarters. Much like the surreptitious elder Miliband brother, they were obliged to enter discreetly, but there were fewer surprised faces then there should’ve been.
“Yet no one died, no one gave birth, it is impossible.” There were no children and no graveyards. George hadn’t noticed until his conversation with Nick. David had gave him estimated numbers, but the census on record was woefully out of date and no one knew what happened to the data; lost computers and hard-drives would’ve been adequate answers had not the drafting of the Reform Act required and revealed precise numbers. “It's like we have a whole hidden population. What's going on?” he demanded.
Ed Miliband looked toward Peter Mandelson. “I thought you said we were going to talk about David,” he said, almost sly.
“Which David?” Nick asked.
“The Chancellor was kidnapped and detained. Nick was forced to wandering across Europe until it was deemed time for him to be seen and acknowledged as if doing a knight's tour, useless. Meanwhile, the government was forced into retreat and seclusion. All of us left to live, to wait, to occupy ourselves with the business of government just so we don’t go mad. It was the 18th century with anachronisms. Our whole world was almost reduced to walking distance- a nutshell of infinite space. Do you understand now, why you were so popular upon your return?” Nick remained silent. It made sense. George had never really examined why Nick had been so enthusiastically embraced and why Labour had been so desperately trying to court him; he merely thought one was the consequence of the other. He hadn’t considered, dealing with his own experiences, that even those who remained had not been as he had left them.
“No one forced anyone to do anything,” Peter said softly. George scoffed.
“My brother, David Miliband,” Ed said, still cryptic, “was playing a game. He joined it as soon as he saw all the pieces had been laid out: the floods, the embargoes on Britain, the bankers' discontent, your kidnapping. It wasn’t quite treason, but he waited. He had made contacts in his various jobs, but his goal had always been the same. Lord Mandelson helped him as much as he could help Labour.” He paused, curiously devoid of bitterness, his dark eyes seemed to fix upon nothing. “There had been miscalculations. Nick returned, the Treasury fiasco failed, but he thinks he still is playing a game.”
“Against David?” Peter was smirking. George turned his face away. Nick looked like he was about to be ill. George corrected himself, “against the Conservatives.” The arrogance of the man!
Ed gave him an almost withering look. “Against me.”
George thought of the last three years. Edward Miliband didn’t look much like his brother, but there was still a resemblance. “I need air,” he gasped, and got out of the room.
-=-=
Nick thought about following George as he stalked out, but Mandelson laid a hand on his elbow and shook his head.
“Don’t go, Nick, I still haven’t told you about where the people went.” Nick froze. Gone was the half-wondering tone. Ed Miliband’s entire demeanour changed as if he was a different man. He looked and sounded alert, in better form than he had been even in Parliament. “Do sit down, Peter will makes sure George’s all right.”
It was all a ruse. He had let George ask the question but had provoked him into leaving the room. Despite being worried for his colleague, Nick couldn’t help being impressed. There were photographs of the Miliband's children hanging on the walls, lovingly framed in chronological order. It as not the office of a man half-deranged with existential crises. Nick let a small smile pass his lips. “Where is the hidden population then?”
“If you had bothered reading the draft of the Reform Act; you’d realise that people have not exactly moved out of the hardest hit areas which also happen to be Labour strongholds.”
“That had never been the question.” Nick knew about the tribal allegiances, what he didn’t understand was why Labour had all the records. If George had not mentioned Christmas, he would’ve never have noticed. After all, he couldn’t notice these things and still function.
“Very recent history should’ve told you that the Northern territories threatened to secede twice. Once before the dissolution of the Lords. The second time after the government retreated. Neither secession went through. Officially, it was merely a gesture of protest and did not change the laws. Even the Lords had essentially dissolved themselves.”
Nick had read about them. Far away in Vienna or Ankara, feeling vaguely foolish walking through cannelled streets and constantly meeting harried self-important bureaucrats it had seemed like news from another world or another time, an over-embellished story. After all, no leader had never been named. And more importantly, Britain remained, so his task was still relevant. “Unofficially?” he queried.
Edward Miliband had a curious manner of smiling, something that from the side, as if perpetually half-embarrassed. “It was still a gesture of protest, but all the Unions had congregated there. Those who can and nearer to the sea and airports, of course, had fled. Scotland’s independence was hard-won and impossible to deny. The demographics of entire Britain had changed except for the North.”
“That seemed quite good news for Labour.” They were treading dangerous waters now.
“David Cameron’s government is redrawing borders of constituencies with ministers he knows will not dissent. And now, your Lib-Dems are with them. I don’t think you know what you are doing-” he clearly had more on the same vein, but desisted, probably remembering that he was the one who had invited Nick to stay. “Dissolving House of Lords means that there could be no veto if the term of parliament is extended. Churchill’s government lasted nine and half years. It has already been eight years under the Coalition, Nick.”
“And that was why you accepted Mandelson’s return. You wanted the Lords reinstated, but it failed.”
“Greed makes all things awry,” Ed said reluctantly.
Nick felt all his irritation building up to a point. “They wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t-”
“No!” Ed said, horrified. “That was their own doing. I had nothing to do with it. I offered David Cameron my help.”
“Why am I here then? What help are you offering me? You know I won’t go into a Coalition with Labour.”
“Yes, we know. Vince and others were quite convinced that you were becoming wholly Tory and were ready to throw you over. Then, somehow, you convinced them to become Tories. No one has quite noticed yet. David Cameron has a very good friend in you, but you must be more than his friend.”
Nick’s heart skipped a beat. Ed’s was perilously sharp.
“You will call for a parliamentary election, Nick,” Ed said. “There cannot just be a by-election when the Act passes. He had already forced us to agree to his ridiculous tax scheme. I know Lib-Dems do not dominate the Cabinet, but you simply cannot agree with everything he said.”
“I am free to disagree,” Nick said.
“Prove it,” said Ed simply. It was tempting to throttle him, or to leave. Neither were possible choices. “You know continuing the same parliament is reprehensible. Britain as it had been changed and deserves to make another choice. After AV, after floods, you know the Liberals would no longer be merely consigned to political wilderness. And even if you fear it, you made a moral commitment when you stood in an election for the first time.”
It was exactly what Nick feared. Nick didn’t know and he didn’t trust Labour. The Liberal-Democrats would never be Conservatives, but neither were they Labour. The delicate instrument of trust his party had with the Conservatives had been established only with great difficulty. His understanding with David Cameron was even more complex. All allusions were inadequate, all descriptions insulting.
“What if I don’t?” he tried.
“Then you are as oligarchical as Labour always feared. There had always been cartoons. The public school government. Your Rees-Moggs and your Goldsmiths-”
Nick chuckled. “Your frontbench is comparable.”
Ed’s brow furrowed. “Our backbench is not. Also, North can and will secede. This time, it will succeed and the Coalition will look very bad in the aftermath,” he warned.
“The secession will tear Britain apart. Our work-” Is not yet done, but Nick faltered. He physically ached for a smoke. He couldn’t think straight. He didn’t want to. He wished that he and David could retire from politics altogether. Scarcely had the thought passed his mind then he dismissed it.
“It will save it,” said Ed furiously. “It will be,” he was quiet again, “inevitable.”
Well then, thought Nick, that was all Marx. And David Miliband had asked the pertinent question. His “what then” had an answer. George had never needed to worry about the Tory ideology being compromised for as long as it was in power. The discontent of the Opposition would’ve upset the equilibrium. Red Ed indeed.
As if reading his face, Ed continued more gently, “Nothing is worth the tyranny of the majority, Nick, and you know that. Can you really believe that David Cameron would wish to keep a Coalition going? Eventually, Lib-Dems will outlive their usefulness. What then?” The ghostly echo: “What then for you?”
-=-=
“You saw Boris in America?” David asked again.
David Miliband nodded, at ease sitting in Number 10. “And he said that we could help each other.”
It was useless. The man meddles, except the Treasury scandal paralyzed them all. David Miliband either preferred dealing with Cameron or distrusted Boris more. “And all you want me to do,” David said, “Is to stay out of it.”
“It will be a Labour leadership contest.” There was something arch in the manner of this Miliband that David found grating. He suspected it was something that reminded him of himself-- something to do with the original model perhaps -- but that line of thought was best left unexplored.
“And you’re sure you’ll win,” he couldn’t help asking. David Miliband seemed so certain that it was tempting to remind him not to underestimate his brother. He had already made that mistake once. But as he reminded him, it was none of his business except it was, very much so. David Miliband, much like Boris Johnson, had appeared too fortuitously. There was also something terribly knowing about that wide smile that made him wary. It was a very New Labour expression. All those who followed Blair seemed to have inherited that vaguely alarming expression, almost predatory in effect.
“I am confident about what I am for,” David Miliband said, all his omnivorous tendencies on display. “All I ask, David, is that you will not comment on either of us or anyone else who might choose to stand at the contest.”
“You have people in mind then,” he asked coolly, idly tapping his pen on the desk. He doubted it. Splitting Edward Miliband’s votes would not be easy, though part of him wondered if he was projecting. There was still Balls, after all.
“It would be a fair contest by the rules laid down by the National Executive Committee. Eight years is too long.” He was smiling, thought it had turned enigmatic, and offered the date. It would be soon after the putative by-election, even triggered by it.
Strictly speaking, this was a private visit, on no official capacity at all. It was unnecessary to make it matter of official policy, but David Cameron had no inclination to agree to David Miliband’s proposal. A sense of staunch loyalty to the honourable gentlemen of the Opposition aside, the last thing he wanted was for Murdoch’s to further influence British politics. That he had the Conservatives was surely enough. David Cameron was head of the Coalition government; by all rights, he should have the most say on how the country’s governed. And if he was wetter than they would expect, so be it.
“Eight years is a long time,” David agreed.
-=-=
“Are you all right?”
George snapped awake. “Fine.” He unfolded his hands from his lap and stood. Peter Mandelson was leaning against the frame. He hadn’t even the decency to close the door.
“Happy now?” Mandelson asked, nonchalant, but he was holding a yogurt in his hand. “I thought you had fainted. Your eyes were closed, you weren’t moving.” he said, handing it and a plastic spoon over.
George took them, vaguely disturbed that Peter was still indulging in the habit of watching him. “What?”
Mandelson shut the door softly. “What are you going to do about David?”
Momentarily confused which David he referred, George said, “David? We are all in this together.“
“That’s Conservatism for you,” Peter said, disgusted. “Repeat it often enough and it will be true. We may be all in this together, but this is an empty demonstrative.”
“Pedant,” George grumbled.
“Are you really all right?” Peter asked. “I didn’t hurt you too badly by bringing you here did I? And I meant your David. Will you tell him if he hadn’t figured out himself by now.”
“It’s just a building, Peter, and an egoistical Miliband.” George quieted, wondering at what point David Miliband had entered the so called game, how much of his life this sibling rivalry had stolen from him. And they say the Tories were the heirs and perpetrators of the aristocratic system. Ridiculous. “No, there’s nothing wrong, except I do find you fickle.” Peter protested he had only ever been on New Labour’s side, not individuals in particular. George looked around, “Where is Nick? Is he hearing the answer to the question I asked?”
Peter nodded, but refused to say anything.
“Nick always sounds convincing,” George said, testing, “even when he’s not convinced himself. He likes to see himself as someone who lives in absolutes.” He refrained from adding Ed Miliband could be much the same; the meeting couldn’t possibly be productive.
“But you had worn him down anyways,” Peter was in a sardonic mood. “But it’s possibly why David Cameron loves him,” he said. He checked George’s expression. “Ah, in fact, he’s in love with him. Well, that changes matters considerably. Does Nick love him?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” George raised an eyebrow. “Or, even better, ask yourself.”
“I would, except I don’t think I should....I don’t love David Cameron. I made a point of not loving him. I also don’t love Nick Clegg. My affections for this government is rather more refined and even rarefied, dear boy. But I see your meaning. It’s all so long ago.”
“And in the end...was it enough?”
“Three Cabinet returns and a lordship,” replied Peter easily.
“Three dismissals,” George reminded him and grinned, suddenly gleeful, and licked the back of his teeth.
“You are cruel,” said Peter, rising a hand to cover his heart. “But so very young. A cruel boy.” He sighed. “You all are, full of enviable intoxicating youth.”
George pursed his lips. “I’m not so much a boy,” he said, “except in comparison to you perhaps.”
And Peter was all dismissive again, “Don’t be so petty, George, enjoy youth’s prerogatives. There’s always another chance.” Mandelson checked his phone then raised his eyes to look at George from beneath his eyebrows. “Run along now, tell David all about Nicholas’ choice.”
“What did Ed offer him?” What could Ed possibly offer Nick David hadn’t already?
“Absolutes,” answered Peter.
-=-=
Perhaps it was some sort subconscious leftover from his transcendentalist days, but sometimes it was still very tempting to slip into that space of purposeful consumptive “nothingness”.
“I’ve never been asked to choose between love and principles before,” he could tell himself afterwards, feeling almost grandiose in the declaration except it was a lie. In a white-terraced house in London, every hour and every day for a fortnight as house and home closed around him, he had chosen. All the moments blur together- a man consented to the consequences by living with his choices.
“What will Britain be if North seceded?” he had asked, jokingly, “What will it be called?”
“Northern Britain,” Ed deadpanned, perhaps already grown used to the idea. Nick stared at him in disbelief.
“Not simply Great Britain?” he had asked weakly.
It was more than semantics. It was, there was a pause in the answer, a practicality. A practicality based on principles. A secession would be illegal, but it must be a protest, not simply ambition. Advocating a new oligarchy afterwards solely consisting of Labour quite defeated the purpose. And, it was pointed out, the son of Ralph Miliband was a man who preferred not to repeat history. Strongly implied in the phrasing and in the look that followed was that Edward Miliband was a humble man, serving as a leader for the people he represented.
“Aren’t we all?” Nick muttered, unconvinced and very doubtful. Under the Coalition, they had saved Britain. Under the Coalition, came the cool response, they had almost ruined her and if Nick continued to pursue the the irresponsible position of compromising unnecessarily, there would be no nation of people.
Ed had said: “Politics, press, and banking; they would remain the sole beneficiaries of a continual Coalition.” The primary and the secondary industries -- the tangibilities of service and manufacture -- couldn’t compete with the tertiary, which dealt solely in the abstract; in the inevitable conspiracy of mathematics that give countries their exam results via economic indices. The triumvirate of the modern world required no one who couldn’t already take care of themselves.
“David Cameron’s Big Society,” said Ed, reaching the theme eventually, and unsettling Nick with his impenetrable gaze and inscrutable smile, “is a fairy-story. A secret world, a secluded government, it has its own rules and laws; they are not worth questioning until we realise there is a real world outside.”
And when the first snow fell a week later, ensconced, rather, hidden, in a room in a flat in Number 10, Nick still couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.
“Nick?” There was the creak of a door then loud shuffling. Someone touched his shoulder. He leaned into it, the skin was welcoming cool. “Are you listening to this?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Nick answered honestly. He tilted his head, straining a bit. Someone had left their iPod speakers on the desk playing Haydn’s Creation libretto, but it was playing quietly. “Isn’t it ominous?” he asked.
David Cameron frowned. He laid a hand on Nick’s forehead. “Did you catch a chill? You’re burning up. I thought I saw some of the Cabinet looking peaky,” he added, and I thought it was only because they were excited about passing the act and the new policy document.” He spoke like a man who already saw the thing finished. “And then, peace forever.”
Lines from The Second Coming drifted across his mind-
The best lack all conviction
The worst are full of vivid intensity
And which was he? Nick wondered, dimly aware that a hand was pulling him up from the chair. It was a dilemma, a sort of double-bind. If he lacked conviction, then he was the best. And yet, if he lacked conviction--
Surely some revelation is at hand, Nick thought a little desperately, surely.
Beside him, David leaned close and whispered into his ear, “Relax. It’s only a joke,” almost rueful. For a moment Nick thought he meant this world was a joke and was momentarily disoriented. He took a step side-ways and nearly crashed into a picture frame had not a hand steadied on his shoulder. Cameron led him to the bedroom. His own, he noticed, and David’s fingers were at his throat, unknotting his tie and opening the top buttons. Nick, giving up, slumped onto the bed.
“I’ll bring you something later,” David said, bending down to slip off Nick’s shoes. Nick had the curious sensation of watching all this from far away. He patted the soft brown hair, the silver unnoticeable, letting the strands fall through his fingers, then drifted to touch the smooth skin of the other man's face. David raised his head, quirked a smile, then commanded Nick to get under the covers.
“You know I want to kiss you,” David said softly, tucking in a blanket beside his head. There was a knock on the door. Someone came in with a glass of water and a motrin as he stepped away to fiddle with the temperature controls.
Then the light dimmed, but David lingered by the door. “Do you want anything in particular?” he asked solicitously.
Nick recognized the tone, suddenly wishing David had kissed him. Now he couldn’t catch the expression on the face, only the tense line of the silhouette. “Tell me what you came to tell me.”
“The Labour leadership contest,” David Cameron of the Tories said, “We can’t let David Miliband win.”
Nick shivered, but it might’ve just been the fever. He closed his eyes.
-=-=
Chapter 9: vaster than empires
It was still very early in the morning, the sky pallid with twilight as he changed into suit and tie. George’s needless worries had been bothering him, but David believed that he would come through once he realised that continuing the Coalition in its present form would gave them the catalyst needed to redefine the Conservative party. They both knew it was the only way for the party to survive. The transformation had been underway before the Thames Barrier was raised for the first time during this parliament.
It was Boris Johnson who worried him. He didn’t like the Lib-Dems. He didn’t like Nick. Rather, he liked Nick as long as it was party policy. It was better if he disliked Nick personally, but Boris liked everyone or perhaps he disliked everyone but acted he didn’t mind either way. It’s part of the charm; the puzzle surprises people into liking him, as if they thought his evident existential confusion reflected theirs and deserved a role in their own governance. Boris had explained it to him once a long time ago at university. Despite the election results won’t be out until the next day, he was confident like a man who had done it a thousand times before. “Two thousand years ago,” he had intoned, conveying the impression of a pipe-smoking don despite sitting sprawled on a couch. At the time, mercifully he had stopped there, sparing them from listening to one of his papers. He had been prevented, before.
David wouldn’t mind if some intrepid journalist could unearth those papers. Doubtless the man had moved on, but he knew his own had been telling of the embryonic politician. It would be useful, he reflected, if he knew which way Boris would move. Three years of impossible choices had distilled him into someone who made decisions regardless; he distrusted his own memories of Boris Johnson despite the inherent belief that they would all act for the benefit of the party.
The party incidentally, did not include Nick Clegg, who would’ve merited only a single thought if David had just won a little more or Brown had lost a little more in 2010. Well, David could be honest with himself and laugh at himself as well. Nick was still only one thought- one, encompassing continuous thought.
“Therefore we mourn-” he continued to edit the the speech for the memorial service, suppressing the urge to ring up Nick asking him to be awake with him. The heat was working. The room was abominably warm. The paragraphs seemed frozen with grief. Sheer misery infused every sentence and paragraph. He drafted it in the middle of the mercenary incursion, the aching wakefulness familiarly despairing. He had been putting off reading it. George had already pencilled in a comment about the difference between dourness and dignity. It would be better to start from the beginning.
After a while, his PA came in with his diary for the day. Steps and greetings filtered through the door when she opened and closed it. Then all was quiet and he was alone, surrounded by the vague hum of computers and his own thoughts until she came in again and turned on the TV.
He as too well-bred to talk to himself. He rang up Miliband. “I thought you could keep it quiet,” he said evenly. There was a small laugh at the other end.
“I am keeping it quiet,” Ed said, infuriatingly monotone.
“Kill it.”
“What do you think we’ve been trying to do? Balls is on a rampage. The leak is on your end, Cameron.” Finally, a note of impatience crept it. “What are you doing?”
“There’s no one-” He looked at the header in the memo attached to the report again. “I know who, but the thing can’t stay alive,” he said and hung up. Well, even he had assumed- Assumptions could be proven wrong. David Cameron could improvise and adapt.
Time to wake up.
-=-=
“If I asked you what is this world like, what would you say?”
“I hope that is a rhetorical question,” Nick smiled. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. They were all tense. The story, as it was presented, looked damaging to the whole parliament. It was beyond what they had anticipated. There were accusations of fraud and swindling at the highest levels, accompanied by the damning evidence of the members of cabinet’s own financial security and the treasury’s belated accounting. David had looked ready to murder seeing his photos of Sam and the children on TV. George felt as if his universe had collapsed on itself.
“It should be an easy question,” Boris said, filling the air with words. “Otherwise we wouldn’t be in different parties.”
“I really don't have the time,” Nick said. He was ready to leave them. He couldn’t defend the Lib-Dems working at the Treasury. Vince Cable was conveniently ill at home. On the speakerphone, he denied all knowledge of the business. But his name, too, had been among those ignominiously connected to the whole wretched business. The papers had suddenly remembered that Nick Clegg, leader of the Liberal Democrats, was now European commissioner for trade while retaining his post as Deputy Prime Minister. It was everything George had feared. The special dispensation was seen as a conspiracy between the members of the British government and the EU to accept whatever plan the EU would issue.
“You are agreeing then.” Boris was delighted.
Nick raised an eyebrow. “I really don’t think this is the time. I didn’t leak it to the press.” He departed, George turned on Boris.
“I can’t believe you let that get out.”
“Me? I didn’t even know about the business until this morning.”
“It’s not my people,” George argued, unconvinced. “Someone leaked it. For what? It wasn’t merely secret accounts. It wasn’t just journalists. Someone inside wrote the entire damned copy for them.”
“But why?” Boris asked, sounding genuinely mystified. “Even Ed Miliband’s people had been trying to stopper it as well. It doesn’t look good for anyone.”
“I don’t know, Boris.” George was at a loss. No one benefited from the knowledge. He had expected to meet with Peter later in the day to extract what he knew about Ed Miliband’s concessions to the Conservatives. It was clear that had been one. At least, he hoped there was. Labour MPs had been on the news spinning as quickly as their own people and it was barely noon.
-=-=
By two o’clock, Nick Clegg was chairing a meeting that was turning into a tribunal, though there was confusion regarding who were the accused. In fact, in the absence of an outright confession, they might as well be trying invisible men. Men, who were, nonetheless, making their presence felt from the press of cameras and microphones outside the Liberal-Democrat headquarters.
Vince had somehow dragged himself from bed and sat swaddled in scarves and coat opposite Nick. His advisors sat safe two seats from him. The weather was changing. The whole room was scented with warm lemon, but ill or well, every one of them looked feverish and sounded hoarse.
“I’m not trying to sabotage you,” Chris Huhne was saying, “but in the interest of truth, we do all have to admit that the Coalition government lost control of the money flowing in and out of the treasury in the aftermath of the floods. It got worse after the chancellor disappeared. It is a matter of record.”
“It is not a matter of record,” Vince responded, his voice harsh despite its weakness. “That is the problem, but there is no self-interest involved in using money we have to ensure this government remain afloat. What I fail to understand is why someone took upon themselves to blatantly discard what the entire Cabinet had agreed on and insinuate that this entire government was engaging in defrauding Britain. Of all the places we could be-” he was overtaken by a fit of violent coughing. Nick winced at the sound.
All the Cabinet ministers had denied any wrongdoing, but none of them knew the exact details of the policies as much as the papers seem to. The memos had came from the Treasury, which meant it was the Treasury who had supplied the press with the information. Both Lib-Dem and Tory clerks were under suspicion. Given the damage it could potentially cause, Nick half-expected someone to have came forward in self-righteous indignity. It was too deliberate to be mere mischief. The Reform Act had been so close in coming to its finalized form.
“It’s sheer wanton destruction,” he muttered. “And for what? Why disrupt the entire government?”
Ed Davey seemed agitated. Vince had started to wheeze. “Open the curtains,” he said. Before Nick could protest, there was a sudden strange scramble for the window.
The were meeting in one of the meeting rooms that opened toward an enclosed courtyard. It was impossible to know whether there were long-lenses watching them but no one appeared to have scaled the walls. Light poured in, fresh air cleansed the room, Nick took a deep breath, then noticed that many around him looked immensely sad.
“What is it” he asked, confused.
“No one is coming back.”
Nick didn’t recognize the voice and didn’t seek out the speaker. An ugly thought had occurred to him. “You mean it’s just us,” he said, sotto voce. “It can’t be. It is just not the right time yet,” he tried desperately.
The dream had been a shadow. He refused to believe it. Nick looked around at the faces surrounding him. It would’ve been childish to ask them whether they still believed that Normalcy was possible. He had came back. They had made all sacrifices. They must believe.
“So a few men’s despair is making fools of us all,” he said bitterly. “All our work had been for nothing.”
“If you’ve never known hope,” someone said, Nick glared, but she forged on, “If you are under thirty years old. Eight years, even four, is a very long time. There is no point in waiting. Despair or ambition, as long as we had been all inside it was safe.”
Nick pinched the bridge of his nose. They had been going about it the wrong way. “There are people beyond government,” he pointed out.
“Not if your entire livelihood depended on politics and the current form seems no longer adequate. This is still a Tory led Coalition.”
“We don’t gave time for this,” Nick decided, livid. His sympathy for changing politics only stretched so far. “Either they all get help or they may all start considering alternative futures.”
“What about the truth?” someone protested.
“The truth is that we are making the best of the worst possible situation,” Nick answered. “We always have. The country is internally solvent and I am here because I believe in safeguarding this country.” He had been saying it all morning; saying it again almost sounded trite.
“Someone’s encouraging them,” Vince murmured. “Someone’s making promises.”
-=-=
Peter Mandelson was doing a great job of directing the attention to the change in season and the necessary and practical preparations people should and could undertake this year. It was a very mundane sort of directive, but the sheer novelty of him in the role seemed to be adequately distracting that interviews concerning the implications of EU’s role in Britain’s affairs usually became derailed without the host noticing.
“Spell-binding,” David heard George commenting once, seemingly without irony, then, with more intent and more significantly, seeing David standing there, “and on our side for the moment.”
David couldn’t pretend to know what George and Peter Mandelson discussed. Boris, temporarily shocked by the scandal into inaction, had been agitating less as the 1922 Committee was frantically reviewing itself and now deeply suspicious of anyone who wished for change. There would be no more discussion of a leadership contest for a time. David was making sure of that.
Being written subtly into the Act of Parliament was also a new tax system that comforted the
Conservatives. It would irritate the Lib-Dems and likely anger Labourites when they learn of it.
“Don’t tell Peter Mandelson,” he warned George when they finished the final version.
“I’m not planning to-” He realised what David implied. “And when are you telling Nick?” he asked smoothly.
David tapped the table and hesitated. “There’s no reason to tell him yet.”
“Who was it that told me that our Coalition partners has a right to know policy decisions before we announce them?” The sarcasm was thick. “Furthermore, you are letting Nick announce it. You’re wrapping it into an Act that needs to pass. Breathtaking, David.” He seemed to struggle for the next sentence, “You know I don’t want to say anything.”
“But you will.” David sighed, and braced himself.
“I hope you know what you are gambling with. Your affair with Nick is your own business, you might even be prepared for a revelation that goes against all conservative moral values, but this all might come to grief at any time.”
“I’m separating the personal from the political,” he smiled wryly, “I’m taking your advise.”
“David, you are not reasonable when it comes to Nick Clegg,” George said. “Most people can, but you cannot. I hope you know what you are doing.”
“I always do.” And it was true. David always did even though when he thought he hadn’t known enough. He at least knew his own reasons and motivations. Compromises were difficult in the best of times; letting the more left of the Lib-Dems scramble for a response was a matter of policy. He would let Nick know, but not until necessary. As for Ed Miliband- Labour would have a cause to rally behind.
He explained this to George in bits and pieces in the ensuing days, who remained deeply skeptical but finally shrugged and said philosophically that only the inevitable happened and “You don’t own him your confessions.”
It was unfortunately the wrong thing to say and ended the conversation abruptly. They were both suddenly aware now that none of them owe anyone his confessions, except the vaguely nebulous electorate presently preparing for Winter and being entertained by spin doctors at their most theatrical.
Ed Miliband had told David before how much he disliked it. He disliked Peter Mandelson, too, for no clear reason David knew except for reasons of history.
"By the way, do you know what is a knight's tour?" David asked.
"Why, some cartoonist at it again?” George frowned. They were never flattering toward the Tories and often obscene when depicting him. “I thought they've stopped with that nonsense.”
"Not that,” David said. Perhaps it was nothing at all. Edward Miliband’s humour was never very direct.
"It's a mathematical problem which a knight must go through a course through every position on the board," one of the George’s advisers said as she stood up, looking as if she was barely suppressing laughter.
“An obstacle course?” George asked.
“A knight on a chess board,” she clarified.
Of course, trust Ed to make chess allusions.
"Are you taking up the game?" Nick asked innocently.
“I’m not taking further maths,” David replied, annoyed. There was a joke in there, probably at his expense as well.
"Well, I shouldn't ask Ed for a game of chess if I were you.”
David thought he was imagining things, but everyone looked as shocked as he was.
“He is very good,” David Miliband, strode in, slim and smiling, “I hope I'm not interrupting.”
Beside him, Nick let out a sound very like a growl. David tensed. He didn’t remember an appointment with this Miliband. He aimed for levity, “I hope no one saw you coming in.”
“You are not expecting me,” David Miliband seemed a little uncertain at the reception.
“I am,” George said. He turned toward David. “Perhaps you’ll listen to him if not to me.”
“About what?” Nick inquired. It wasn’t clear to whom he was directing the question.
“How did you arrive?”
“Oh, I came by ship,” said David Miliband, “courtesy of a mutual friend.”
Nick said, “Let me guess? Lord Mandelson?” The other man nodded. “Why are you here?”
“For the Memorial Service,” Miliband lied smoothly and needlessly, “and to tell you that the News Corporation is backing your government.”
“We expected it,” said David stiffly, flicking his eyes toward Nick, who hated the reminder of Rupert Murdoch’s involvement, but Miliband’s smile only broadened.
“There is a new condition. You would have to back mine as well.”
He digested this information carefully. Then Nick repeated his question.
“Passing of parliamentary act has always required a vote,” Nick said dryly after Miliband responded.
“But if the writing of the parliamentary act involved all three parties, what then? What is the alternative to a disagreement? What then?”
And echoed inside David’s head was Nick’s voice, once upon a time before he left: But louder sang Plato’s ghost, “What then?”
He caught his lover’s eye. “Our work is not yet done.”
-=-=
The memorial service for the fallen was well attended. Afterwards, it became conveniently crowded. Uniformed in black wool coat and dark suit, a poppy pinned upon the breast, one man was much the same as another.
“The Winters get worse every year.”
“Do they?” asked George, sarcastic, shivering a little. He wanted to be inside. There was frost on the windows in the morning.
“The oceans are too warm, Siberia has too much snow, and too much sun are reflected off. The mass of cold air grows every year, sweeping across Europe. Cold Winters and rising waterlines, that’s what we’ve come to.”
George was sick of conversations about the weather. Ed Miliband was more tiring than he remembered.
“No one’s looking forward to snow,” said Nick beside him, who had always looked forward to snow for as long as George knew him.
“A whole country at a standstill...” Ed’s voice faded as the car stopped. George had never been inside the Labour headquarters. Much like the surreptitious elder Miliband brother, they were obliged to enter discreetly, but there were fewer surprised faces then there should’ve been.
“Yet no one died, no one gave birth, it is impossible.” There were no children and no graveyards. George hadn’t noticed until his conversation with Nick. David had gave him estimated numbers, but the census on record was woefully out of date and no one knew what happened to the data; lost computers and hard-drives would’ve been adequate answers had not the drafting of the Reform Act required and revealed precise numbers. “It's like we have a whole hidden population. What's going on?” he demanded.
Ed Miliband looked toward Peter Mandelson. “I thought you said we were going to talk about David,” he said, almost sly.
“Which David?” Nick asked.
“The Chancellor was kidnapped and detained. Nick was forced to wandering across Europe until it was deemed time for him to be seen and acknowledged as if doing a knight's tour, useless. Meanwhile, the government was forced into retreat and seclusion. All of us left to live, to wait, to occupy ourselves with the business of government just so we don’t go mad. It was the 18th century with anachronisms. Our whole world was almost reduced to walking distance- a nutshell of infinite space. Do you understand now, why you were so popular upon your return?” Nick remained silent. It made sense. George had never really examined why Nick had been so enthusiastically embraced and why Labour had been so desperately trying to court him; he merely thought one was the consequence of the other. He hadn’t considered, dealing with his own experiences, that even those who remained had not been as he had left them.
“No one forced anyone to do anything,” Peter said softly. George scoffed.
“My brother, David Miliband,” Ed said, still cryptic, “was playing a game. He joined it as soon as he saw all the pieces had been laid out: the floods, the embargoes on Britain, the bankers' discontent, your kidnapping. It wasn’t quite treason, but he waited. He had made contacts in his various jobs, but his goal had always been the same. Lord Mandelson helped him as much as he could help Labour.” He paused, curiously devoid of bitterness, his dark eyes seemed to fix upon nothing. “There had been miscalculations. Nick returned, the Treasury fiasco failed, but he thinks he still is playing a game.”
“Against David?” Peter was smirking. George turned his face away. Nick looked like he was about to be ill. George corrected himself, “against the Conservatives.” The arrogance of the man!
Ed gave him an almost withering look. “Against me.”
George thought of the last three years. Edward Miliband didn’t look much like his brother, but there was still a resemblance. “I need air,” he gasped, and got out of the room.
-=-=
Nick thought about following George as he stalked out, but Mandelson laid a hand on his elbow and shook his head.
“Don’t go, Nick, I still haven’t told you about where the people went.” Nick froze. Gone was the half-wondering tone. Ed Miliband’s entire demeanour changed as if he was a different man. He looked and sounded alert, in better form than he had been even in Parliament. “Do sit down, Peter will makes sure George’s all right.”
It was all a ruse. He had let George ask the question but had provoked him into leaving the room. Despite being worried for his colleague, Nick couldn’t help being impressed. There were photographs of the Miliband's children hanging on the walls, lovingly framed in chronological order. It as not the office of a man half-deranged with existential crises. Nick let a small smile pass his lips. “Where is the hidden population then?”
“If you had bothered reading the draft of the Reform Act; you’d realise that people have not exactly moved out of the hardest hit areas which also happen to be Labour strongholds.”
“That had never been the question.” Nick knew about the tribal allegiances, what he didn’t understand was why Labour had all the records. If George had not mentioned Christmas, he would’ve never have noticed. After all, he couldn’t notice these things and still function.
“Very recent history should’ve told you that the Northern territories threatened to secede twice. Once before the dissolution of the Lords. The second time after the government retreated. Neither secession went through. Officially, it was merely a gesture of protest and did not change the laws. Even the Lords had essentially dissolved themselves.”
Nick had read about them. Far away in Vienna or Ankara, feeling vaguely foolish walking through cannelled streets and constantly meeting harried self-important bureaucrats it had seemed like news from another world or another time, an over-embellished story. After all, no leader had never been named. And more importantly, Britain remained, so his task was still relevant. “Unofficially?” he queried.
Edward Miliband had a curious manner of smiling, something that from the side, as if perpetually half-embarrassed. “It was still a gesture of protest, but all the Unions had congregated there. Those who can and nearer to the sea and airports, of course, had fled. Scotland’s independence was hard-won and impossible to deny. The demographics of entire Britain had changed except for the North.”
“That seemed quite good news for Labour.” They were treading dangerous waters now.
“David Cameron’s government is redrawing borders of constituencies with ministers he knows will not dissent. And now, your Lib-Dems are with them. I don’t think you know what you are doing-” he clearly had more on the same vein, but desisted, probably remembering that he was the one who had invited Nick to stay. “Dissolving House of Lords means that there could be no veto if the term of parliament is extended. Churchill’s government lasted nine and half years. It has already been eight years under the Coalition, Nick.”
“And that was why you accepted Mandelson’s return. You wanted the Lords reinstated, but it failed.”
“Greed makes all things awry,” Ed said reluctantly.
Nick felt all his irritation building up to a point. “They wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t-”
“No!” Ed said, horrified. “That was their own doing. I had nothing to do with it. I offered David Cameron my help.”
“Why am I here then? What help are you offering me? You know I won’t go into a Coalition with Labour.”
“Yes, we know. Vince and others were quite convinced that you were becoming wholly Tory and were ready to throw you over. Then, somehow, you convinced them to become Tories. No one has quite noticed yet. David Cameron has a very good friend in you, but you must be more than his friend.”
Nick’s heart skipped a beat. Ed’s was perilously sharp.
“You will call for a parliamentary election, Nick,” Ed said. “There cannot just be a by-election when the Act passes. He had already forced us to agree to his ridiculous tax scheme. I know Lib-Dems do not dominate the Cabinet, but you simply cannot agree with everything he said.”
“I am free to disagree,” Nick said.
“Prove it,” said Ed simply. It was tempting to throttle him, or to leave. Neither were possible choices. “You know continuing the same parliament is reprehensible. Britain as it had been changed and deserves to make another choice. After AV, after floods, you know the Liberals would no longer be merely consigned to political wilderness. And even if you fear it, you made a moral commitment when you stood in an election for the first time.”
It was exactly what Nick feared. Nick didn’t know and he didn’t trust Labour. The Liberal-Democrats would never be Conservatives, but neither were they Labour. The delicate instrument of trust his party had with the Conservatives had been established only with great difficulty. His understanding with David Cameron was even more complex. All allusions were inadequate, all descriptions insulting.
“What if I don’t?” he tried.
“Then you are as oligarchical as Labour always feared. There had always been cartoons. The public school government. Your Rees-Moggs and your Goldsmiths-”
Nick chuckled. “Your frontbench is comparable.”
Ed’s brow furrowed. “Our backbench is not. Also, North can and will secede. This time, it will succeed and the Coalition will look very bad in the aftermath,” he warned.
“The secession will tear Britain apart. Our work-” Is not yet done, but Nick faltered. He physically ached for a smoke. He couldn’t think straight. He didn’t want to. He wished that he and David could retire from politics altogether. Scarcely had the thought passed his mind then he dismissed it.
“It will save it,” said Ed furiously. “It will be,” he was quiet again, “inevitable.”
Well then, thought Nick, that was all Marx. And David Miliband had asked the pertinent question. His “what then” had an answer. George had never needed to worry about the Tory ideology being compromised for as long as it was in power. The discontent of the Opposition would’ve upset the equilibrium. Red Ed indeed.
As if reading his face, Ed continued more gently, “Nothing is worth the tyranny of the majority, Nick, and you know that. Can you really believe that David Cameron would wish to keep a Coalition going? Eventually, Lib-Dems will outlive their usefulness. What then?” The ghostly echo: “What then for you?”
-=-=
“You saw Boris in America?” David asked again.
David Miliband nodded, at ease sitting in Number 10. “And he said that we could help each other.”
It was useless. The man meddles, except the Treasury scandal paralyzed them all. David Miliband either preferred dealing with Cameron or distrusted Boris more. “And all you want me to do,” David said, “Is to stay out of it.”
“It will be a Labour leadership contest.” There was something arch in the manner of this Miliband that David found grating. He suspected it was something that reminded him of himself-- something to do with the original model perhaps -- but that line of thought was best left unexplored.
“And you’re sure you’ll win,” he couldn’t help asking. David Miliband seemed so certain that it was tempting to remind him not to underestimate his brother. He had already made that mistake once. But as he reminded him, it was none of his business except it was, very much so. David Miliband, much like Boris Johnson, had appeared too fortuitously. There was also something terribly knowing about that wide smile that made him wary. It was a very New Labour expression. All those who followed Blair seemed to have inherited that vaguely alarming expression, almost predatory in effect.
“I am confident about what I am for,” David Miliband said, all his omnivorous tendencies on display. “All I ask, David, is that you will not comment on either of us or anyone else who might choose to stand at the contest.”
“You have people in mind then,” he asked coolly, idly tapping his pen on the desk. He doubted it. Splitting Edward Miliband’s votes would not be easy, though part of him wondered if he was projecting. There was still Balls, after all.
“It would be a fair contest by the rules laid down by the National Executive Committee. Eight years is too long.” He was smiling, thought it had turned enigmatic, and offered the date. It would be soon after the putative by-election, even triggered by it.
Strictly speaking, this was a private visit, on no official capacity at all. It was unnecessary to make it matter of official policy, but David Cameron had no inclination to agree to David Miliband’s proposal. A sense of staunch loyalty to the honourable gentlemen of the Opposition aside, the last thing he wanted was for Murdoch’s to further influence British politics. That he had the Conservatives was surely enough. David Cameron was head of the Coalition government; by all rights, he should have the most say on how the country’s governed. And if he was wetter than they would expect, so be it.
“Eight years is a long time,” David agreed.
-=-=
“Are you all right?”
George snapped awake. “Fine.” He unfolded his hands from his lap and stood. Peter Mandelson was leaning against the frame. He hadn’t even the decency to close the door.
“Happy now?” Mandelson asked, nonchalant, but he was holding a yogurt in his hand. “I thought you had fainted. Your eyes were closed, you weren’t moving.” he said, handing it and a plastic spoon over.
George took them, vaguely disturbed that Peter was still indulging in the habit of watching him. “What?”
Mandelson shut the door softly. “What are you going to do about David?”
Momentarily confused which David he referred, George said, “David? We are all in this together.“
“That’s Conservatism for you,” Peter said, disgusted. “Repeat it often enough and it will be true. We may be all in this together, but this is an empty demonstrative.”
“Pedant,” George grumbled.
“Are you really all right?” Peter asked. “I didn’t hurt you too badly by bringing you here did I? And I meant your David. Will you tell him if he hadn’t figured out himself by now.”
“It’s just a building, Peter, and an egoistical Miliband.” George quieted, wondering at what point David Miliband had entered the so called game, how much of his life this sibling rivalry had stolen from him. And they say the Tories were the heirs and perpetrators of the aristocratic system. Ridiculous. “No, there’s nothing wrong, except I do find you fickle.” Peter protested he had only ever been on New Labour’s side, not individuals in particular. George looked around, “Where is Nick? Is he hearing the answer to the question I asked?”
Peter nodded, but refused to say anything.
“Nick always sounds convincing,” George said, testing, “even when he’s not convinced himself. He likes to see himself as someone who lives in absolutes.” He refrained from adding Ed Miliband could be much the same; the meeting couldn’t possibly be productive.
“But you had worn him down anyways,” Peter was in a sardonic mood. “But it’s possibly why David Cameron loves him,” he said. He checked George’s expression. “Ah, in fact, he’s in love with him. Well, that changes matters considerably. Does Nick love him?”
“Why don’t you ask him yourself?” George raised an eyebrow. “Or, even better, ask yourself.”
“I would, except I don’t think I should....I don’t love David Cameron. I made a point of not loving him. I also don’t love Nick Clegg. My affections for this government is rather more refined and even rarefied, dear boy. But I see your meaning. It’s all so long ago.”
“And in the end...was it enough?”
“Three Cabinet returns and a lordship,” replied Peter easily.
“Three dismissals,” George reminded him and grinned, suddenly gleeful, and licked the back of his teeth.
“You are cruel,” said Peter, rising a hand to cover his heart. “But so very young. A cruel boy.” He sighed. “You all are, full of enviable intoxicating youth.”
George pursed his lips. “I’m not so much a boy,” he said, “except in comparison to you perhaps.”
And Peter was all dismissive again, “Don’t be so petty, George, enjoy youth’s prerogatives. There’s always another chance.” Mandelson checked his phone then raised his eyes to look at George from beneath his eyebrows. “Run along now, tell David all about Nicholas’ choice.”
“What did Ed offer him?” What could Ed possibly offer Nick David hadn’t already?
“Absolutes,” answered Peter.
-=-=
Perhaps it was some sort subconscious leftover from his transcendentalist days, but sometimes it was still very tempting to slip into that space of purposeful consumptive “nothingness”.
“I’ve never been asked to choose between love and principles before,” he could tell himself afterwards, feeling almost grandiose in the declaration except it was a lie. In a white-terraced house in London, every hour and every day for a fortnight as house and home closed around him, he had chosen. All the moments blur together- a man consented to the consequences by living with his choices.
“What will Britain be if North seceded?” he had asked, jokingly, “What will it be called?”
“Northern Britain,” Ed deadpanned, perhaps already grown used to the idea. Nick stared at him in disbelief.
“Not simply Great Britain?” he had asked weakly.
It was more than semantics. It was, there was a pause in the answer, a practicality. A practicality based on principles. A secession would be illegal, but it must be a protest, not simply ambition. Advocating a new oligarchy afterwards solely consisting of Labour quite defeated the purpose. And, it was pointed out, the son of Ralph Miliband was a man who preferred not to repeat history. Strongly implied in the phrasing and in the look that followed was that Edward Miliband was a humble man, serving as a leader for the people he represented.
“Aren’t we all?” Nick muttered, unconvinced and very doubtful. Under the Coalition, they had saved Britain. Under the Coalition, came the cool response, they had almost ruined her and if Nick continued to pursue the the irresponsible position of compromising unnecessarily, there would be no nation of people.
Ed had said: “Politics, press, and banking; they would remain the sole beneficiaries of a continual Coalition.” The primary and the secondary industries -- the tangibilities of service and manufacture -- couldn’t compete with the tertiary, which dealt solely in the abstract; in the inevitable conspiracy of mathematics that give countries their exam results via economic indices. The triumvirate of the modern world required no one who couldn’t already take care of themselves.
“David Cameron’s Big Society,” said Ed, reaching the theme eventually, and unsettling Nick with his impenetrable gaze and inscrutable smile, “is a fairy-story. A secret world, a secluded government, it has its own rules and laws; they are not worth questioning until we realise there is a real world outside.”
And when the first snow fell a week later, ensconced, rather, hidden, in a room in a flat in Number 10, Nick still couldn’t find it in himself to disagree.
“Nick?” There was the creak of a door then loud shuffling. Someone touched his shoulder. He leaned into it, the skin was welcoming cool. “Are you listening to this?”
“I hadn’t noticed,” Nick answered honestly. He tilted his head, straining a bit. Someone had left their iPod speakers on the desk playing Haydn’s Creation libretto, but it was playing quietly. “Isn’t it ominous?” he asked.
David Cameron frowned. He laid a hand on Nick’s forehead. “Did you catch a chill? You’re burning up. I thought I saw some of the Cabinet looking peaky,” he added, and I thought it was only because they were excited about passing the act and the new policy document.” He spoke like a man who already saw the thing finished. “And then, peace forever.”
Lines from The Second Coming drifted across his mind-
The best lack all conviction
The worst are full of vivid intensity
And which was he? Nick wondered, dimly aware that a hand was pulling him up from the chair. It was a dilemma, a sort of double-bind. If he lacked conviction, then he was the best. And yet, if he lacked conviction--
Surely some revelation is at hand, Nick thought a little desperately, surely.
Beside him, David leaned close and whispered into his ear, “Relax. It’s only a joke,” almost rueful. For a moment Nick thought he meant this world was a joke and was momentarily disoriented. He took a step side-ways and nearly crashed into a picture frame had not a hand steadied on his shoulder. Cameron led him to the bedroom. His own, he noticed, and David’s fingers were at his throat, unknotting his tie and opening the top buttons. Nick, giving up, slumped onto the bed.
“I’ll bring you something later,” David said, bending down to slip off Nick’s shoes. Nick had the curious sensation of watching all this from far away. He patted the soft brown hair, the silver unnoticeable, letting the strands fall through his fingers, then drifted to touch the smooth skin of the other man's face. David raised his head, quirked a smile, then commanded Nick to get under the covers.
“You know I want to kiss you,” David said softly, tucking in a blanket beside his head. There was a knock on the door. Someone came in with a glass of water and a motrin as he stepped away to fiddle with the temperature controls.
Then the light dimmed, but David lingered by the door. “Do you want anything in particular?” he asked solicitously.
Nick recognized the tone, suddenly wishing David had kissed him. Now he couldn’t catch the expression on the face, only the tense line of the silhouette. “Tell me what you came to tell me.”
“The Labour leadership contest,” David Cameron of the Tories said, “We can’t let David Miliband win.”
Nick shivered, but it might’ve just been the fever. He closed his eyes.
-=-=
Chapter 9: vaster than empires