Chamber.
“Number Six, sir.” Kendrick rose briefly to his feet to indicate the question from the Order Paper that stood in his name: “To ask the Prime Minister if he will list his official engagements for the day.” It was a hollow question, identical to Questions One, Two, and Four, which had already preceded it.
Collingridge rose ponderously and glanced at the red briefing folder already open on the Dispatch Box in front of him. He read in a dull monotone. They’d heard it all before. “I refer the Honorable Member to the reply I gave some moments ago to Questions One, Two, and Four.” Since his earlier reply had said no more than that he would spend the day holding meetings with ministerial colleagues and hosting a dinner for the visiting Belgian Prime Minister, no one had yet learned anything of interest about the Prime Minister’s activities—but that was not the intention. The gladiatorial courtesies were now over and battle was about to commence. Kendrick rose to his feet from the Opposition benches.
Steve Kendrick was a gambler, a man who had found professional success in an industry that rewarded chutzpah and oversized balls. No one had been more surprised than he had been, apart from perhaps his ex-wife, that he’d decided to risk the expense account and sports car by fighting a marginal parliamentary seat. Not that he had expected or indeed wanted to win; after all, the Government had been sitting on a pretty reasonable majority, but fighting the seat would help establish his brand name and help him both socially and professionally. He’d spent several weeks on the front pages of the PR trade magazines. “The man with the social conscience” always made good copy in such an aggressively commercial industry.
His majority of seventy-six, after three recounts, had come as an unpleasant shock. It meant a considerably reduced income and a creaking private life put under close scrutiny, and chances were he’d get thrown out at the next election anyway. So what was the point in caution? He had nothing to lose except his anonymity.
Kendrick had spent a fractured night and frustrated morning wrestling with what O’Neill had said. Why cancel a publicity campaign promoting a vote-winning policy? It made no bloody sense unless…Unless it was the policy rather than the publicity campaign that was in trouble. That must surely be it. Wasn’t it? What else could it be? Or was he simply too wet behind the ears to understand what was going on? The more he grappled with the puzzle, the more it wriggled. Should he inquire or accuse? Question or condemn? He knew that if he got it wrong, the first and lasting impression he made would be that of the House fool.
Doubts were still buzzing around his mind like hornets as he rose to his feet. His momentary uncertainty caused the general commotion of the House to die away as MPs sensed his indecision. Had the new Member frozen? Kendrick took a deep breath and decided there was no point trying to stand on his dignity. He jumped.
“Will the Prime Minister explain to the House why he has canceled the promised hospital expansion program?”
No criticism. No elaboration. No added phrase or rambling comment that would give time to the Prime Minister to dodge or duck. A murmur went up as the new backbencher resumed his seat. The hospital program? Canceled? The sport had taken an interesting new turn, and the three hundred-odd spectators turned as one to look toward Collingridge. He clambered to his feet, feeling as he did so that the blood supply to his brain had been left behind. He knew there was nothing in his red briefing folder from which to draw inspiration, no prop, no straw at which he might grasp. It had leaked, been stolen, was ruined, he was fucked. He smiled broadly. It’s what you had to do. Only those sitting very close to him could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the Dispatch Box.
“I hope that the Honorable Gentleman will be careful to avoid
“Number Six, sir.” Kendrick rose briefly to his feet to indicate the question from the Order Paper that stood in his name: “To ask the Prime Minister if he will list his official engagements for the day.” It was a hollow question, identical to Questions One, Two, and Four, which had already preceded it.
Collingridge rose ponderously and glanced at the red briefing folder already open on the Dispatch Box in front of him. He read in a dull monotone. They’d heard it all before. “I refer the Honorable Member to the reply I gave some moments ago to Questions One, Two, and Four.” Since his earlier reply had said no more than that he would spend the day holding meetings with ministerial colleagues and hosting a dinner for the visiting Belgian Prime Minister, no one had yet learned anything of interest about the Prime Minister’s activities—but that was not the intention. The gladiatorial courtesies were now over and battle was about to commence. Kendrick rose to his feet from the Opposition benches.
Steve Kendrick was a gambler, a man who had found professional success in an industry that rewarded chutzpah and oversized balls. No one had been more surprised than he had been, apart from perhaps his ex-wife, that he’d decided to risk the expense account and sports car by fighting a marginal parliamentary seat. Not that he had expected or indeed wanted to win; after all, the Government had been sitting on a pretty reasonable majority, but fighting the seat would help establish his brand name and help him both socially and professionally. He’d spent several weeks on the front pages of the PR trade magazines. “The man with the social conscience” always made good copy in such an aggressively commercial industry.
His majority of seventy-six, after three recounts, had come as an unpleasant shock. It meant a considerably reduced income and a creaking private life put under close scrutiny, and chances were he’d get thrown out at the next election anyway. So what was the point in caution? He had nothing to lose except his anonymity.
Kendrick had spent a fractured night and frustrated morning wrestling with what O’Neill had said. Why cancel a publicity campaign promoting a vote-winning policy? It made no bloody sense unless…Unless it was the policy rather than the publicity campaign that was in trouble. That must surely be it. Wasn’t it? What else could it be? Or was he simply too wet behind the ears to understand what was going on? The more he grappled with the puzzle, the more it wriggled. Should he inquire or accuse? Question or condemn? He knew that if he got it wrong, the first and lasting impression he made would be that of the House fool.
Doubts were still buzzing around his mind like hornets as he rose to his feet. His momentary uncertainty caused the general commotion of the House to die away as MPs sensed his indecision. Had the new Member frozen? Kendrick took a deep breath and decided there was no point trying to stand on his dignity. He jumped.
“Will the Prime Minister explain to the House why he has canceled the promised hospital expansion program?”
No criticism. No elaboration. No added phrase or rambling comment that would give time to the Prime Minister to dodge or duck. A murmur went up as the new backbencher resumed his seat. The hospital program? Canceled? The sport had taken an interesting new turn, and the three hundred-odd spectators turned as one to look toward Collingridge. He clambered to his feet, feeling as he did so that the blood supply to his brain had been left behind. He knew there was nothing in his red briefing folder from which to draw inspiration, no prop, no straw at which he might grasp. It had leaked, been stolen, was ruined, he was fucked. He smiled broadly. It’s what you had to do. Only those sitting very close to him could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped the Dispatch Box.
“I hope that the Honorable Gentleman will be careful to avoid
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