losing Caroline – in a hunting accident, perhaps – and would remarry, the loss of a child such as Clarissa would break his heart.
It was reassuring that there was nothing much wrong with his emotional equipment. It had never been tested much. As a boy he had kept himself to himself, was a little distant with his older brother and sister, avoided falling in love, probably for fear of sentimental ties which might have chained him for ever to his background. That there was something cold-blooded about his constitution did not worry him. It did not make him a bad person. Indeed, for a political animal it could be a most useful attribute.
Perhaps all his emotion was reserved for the political world. It certainly took most of his energy. Caroline was possibly right that he was jaded. Thank goodness it would be recess soon.
He had arrived at the House of Lords end, but it was too early to go inside and his thoughts were still worrying him. On an impulse he turned right into the Embankment gardens, in the lee of Victoria Tower, then through the shabby iron gates with their long-neglected notices about park closing times. He strolled past the elegant small statue of Emmeline Pankhurst, down the path, to the grey stone embankment over the river itself. He folded his arms and leaned over, watching the muddy water.
Suppose he made a mental list of his faults and weaknesses as a possible future minister, much as he might for another candidate considered objectively, and cheered himself up with a similar list of his strengths? Then he could consider how to diminish the former and augment the latter. At least it would give the feeling that he was taking his career in hand, regaining control.
Strengths? Some came immediately to mind. Plenty of money – at least, no money worries, no need to leave the relatively poorly paid Commons for the City for that reason. Being comfortably off gave him political independence of mind and judgement. Actually, it was Caroline’s money, so personal independence was out of the question. A supportive wife and a happy home. Nothing rocky there. Good health, good character: both important. Too many careers had been jeopardised or ruined by a fondness for the bottle, for gambling and the like. A strong constituency and a first-class agent in Tom Sparrow, one of the old school, utterly loyal, fiercely competent. Part of his brain observed with detached amusement that his list was only appropriate for a continued political career: so he had not given that up, then.
Faults? Bit too easy-going. Ought to be more decisive. But that was because he could frequently see trouble coming and, by taking small steps, avoid it. He did love intriguing, which is why the whips’ office suited him so well. And his adroitness meant he had few enemies and a reputation for getting things done without friction. He was unfailingly courteous, on principle: you could get much further with politeness than with a row. That was translated as charm, to his surprise. Not really a fault, then.
Yet it was. Being too content in the endlessly shifting world of politics was the main reason others were making progress faster than he was. He did not push himself, did not ensure that others knew of his successes. Never blew his own trumpet and, to be truthful, didn’t know how. But a fault it certainly was. If he simply tried to stay put he would find himself settling, neglected, in the middle ranks, as other layers slowly and inexorably piled on top, like a garden compost heap in which the richest bits may be deep down, but no one ever bothers to find them. To improve matters meant seeking and taking risks instead of avoiding them. As a youngster he had felt driven: somehow he had to recapture that need to prove himself.
The brownish water lapped gently at the foot of the stones. Piles of flotsam, bits of rotten wood, old plastic bags, an empty Perrier bottle bobbed past. What a mess the Thames still was. It was hard to believe that
It was reassuring that there was nothing much wrong with his emotional equipment. It had never been tested much. As a boy he had kept himself to himself, was a little distant with his older brother and sister, avoided falling in love, probably for fear of sentimental ties which might have chained him for ever to his background. That there was something cold-blooded about his constitution did not worry him. It did not make him a bad person. Indeed, for a political animal it could be a most useful attribute.
Perhaps all his emotion was reserved for the political world. It certainly took most of his energy. Caroline was possibly right that he was jaded. Thank goodness it would be recess soon.
He had arrived at the House of Lords end, but it was too early to go inside and his thoughts were still worrying him. On an impulse he turned right into the Embankment gardens, in the lee of Victoria Tower, then through the shabby iron gates with their long-neglected notices about park closing times. He strolled past the elegant small statue of Emmeline Pankhurst, down the path, to the grey stone embankment over the river itself. He folded his arms and leaned over, watching the muddy water.
Suppose he made a mental list of his faults and weaknesses as a possible future minister, much as he might for another candidate considered objectively, and cheered himself up with a similar list of his strengths? Then he could consider how to diminish the former and augment the latter. At least it would give the feeling that he was taking his career in hand, regaining control.
Strengths? Some came immediately to mind. Plenty of money – at least, no money worries, no need to leave the relatively poorly paid Commons for the City for that reason. Being comfortably off gave him political independence of mind and judgement. Actually, it was Caroline’s money, so personal independence was out of the question. A supportive wife and a happy home. Nothing rocky there. Good health, good character: both important. Too many careers had been jeopardised or ruined by a fondness for the bottle, for gambling and the like. A strong constituency and a first-class agent in Tom Sparrow, one of the old school, utterly loyal, fiercely competent. Part of his brain observed with detached amusement that his list was only appropriate for a continued political career: so he had not given that up, then.
Faults? Bit too easy-going. Ought to be more decisive. But that was because he could frequently see trouble coming and, by taking small steps, avoid it. He did love intriguing, which is why the whips’ office suited him so well. And his adroitness meant he had few enemies and a reputation for getting things done without friction. He was unfailingly courteous, on principle: you could get much further with politeness than with a row. That was translated as charm, to his surprise. Not really a fault, then.
Yet it was. Being too content in the endlessly shifting world of politics was the main reason others were making progress faster than he was. He did not push himself, did not ensure that others knew of his successes. Never blew his own trumpet and, to be truthful, didn’t know how. But a fault it certainly was. If he simply tried to stay put he would find himself settling, neglected, in the middle ranks, as other layers slowly and inexorably piled on top, like a garden compost heap in which the richest bits may be deep down, but no one ever bothers to find them. To improve matters meant seeking and taking risks instead of avoiding them. As a youngster he had felt driven: somehow he had to recapture that need to prove himself.
The brownish water lapped gently at the foot of the stones. Piles of flotsam, bits of rotten wood, old plastic bags, an empty Perrier bottle bobbed past. What a mess the Thames still was. It was hard to believe that
Similar Books
