Buying a Globe-Wernicke

Westminster

The word was out: Old Mother Twaddle was on the warpath. Members of Parliament, advisers and officials tiptoed past the door of her office in Portcullis House, where her researcher, Mr Ralph Harradence, a suave, youthful graduate of the London School of Economics, was trying to soothe her into a more rational frame of mind. Mr Harradence was recognised as one of the best researchers in Westminster, although Mrs Twaddle did not always count this to his credit: while he seemed to know Erskine May's Parliamentary Procedure by heart, he often found very good reasons why she should not proceed as she wished to; and when they differed - which happened quite often - he proved, maddeningly, almost always to be right.

“It's a studied insult!” she was yelling, bosom heaving and making the window-panes rattle. Her large googly-clunky glasses were askew and her hair was a Medusan riot. The hair in question was a wig; one of a series commissioned after Mrs Twaddle had lost her hair to Erysipelas. The wig collection was a good barometer of her mood; the more extreme and frightful the wig, the more irritable she was likely to be. Mr Harradence privately thought, but prudently did not say, that they did not represent good value for money. A Conservative MP, Richard Finch, had caused deep offence by suggesting one evening, amid gales of laughter, that the baldness had been caused by a far less ladylike disease than Erysipelas. However the consensus was that this was unlikely; who, apart from the late Mr Twaddle, had ever wanted to fuck Gwen Twaddle? Finch, who was rarely at a loss, said: “Oh I dunno; maybe Kwame Nkrumah in about 1955!” This had caused further laughter among his friends and fury to Mrs Twaddle when, inevitably, she learned about it.

Back in the present Mr Harradence sighed. “It's not like that at all, Gwen. You were jolly lucky to get a debate – even a Westminster Hall one – so soon. I had to call in a few favours to arrange that! But the fact remains that no Agriculture Minister is available that day; they will all be in Brussels. Rather than postpone the debate, the Government and the House Business Managers have agreed, as a favour to you, to hold it as planned, but you are to be replied to by a Government Spokesman, who is a trusted back-bencher with knowledge of the issues and who will in any case have been briefed by civil servants in the same way as a Minister.”

“It is unusual, as even you must admit!” fumed Mrs Twaddle.

“It is certainly more usual in the House of Lords, where fewer Ministers sit,” conceded Mr Harradence, “but it is equally permissible, if less frequent, in the context of the Commons.”

“Oh very well; so I suppose that I shall have to put up and shut up! Is that what you are trying to tell me?” [Mr Harradence maintained a judicious silence.] “And who is the trusted back-bencher who will speak for the Government?” demanded the old beldame after a pause.

Mr Harradence smiled inwardly but outwardly kept a straight face. Light the blue touchpaper and step back...”The Hon. Member for Flogham and Lynchfield; a rural and agricultural constituency, as you presumably know.”

Mrs Twaddle thought for a moment, while Mr Harradence waited with bated breath: “Lynchfield.... Wait a minute! That's the constituency of that bloody fascist, Richard Finch! He'll be replying to me for HMG? And you're still telling me that that is not a studied insult?

“With respect, Gwen, he has relevant expertise and he is a member of the Committee on Agriculture and Rural Affairs. His constituents, who include numerous farmers, returned him at the last election with an increased majority, so he must have done something right.”

“That says nothing at all for them!” she raged. “The man's a barbarian who spent most of his career in the Parachute Regiment and the SAS, getting up to the most unspeakable things, I shouldn't wonder. Need I say more? 'Relevant expertise' my arse! Apart from Sandhurst, he has had no education to speak of...”

“With respect, Gwen, that is not true either. He has a First from Cambridge, where he was a Chess and Boxing Blue. And these days he is Dr Finch; Doctor honoris causa.”

“That's too much! Who the bloody hell gave him that? Cambridge?”

Again Mr Harradence smiled. “Bloody hell? No, certainly not; it was the opposing side. The Pope, actually, for services to archaeology; during his holidays in Italy he located a lost catacomb containing the mortal remains of a saint and some missing early popes. He is a Doctor of the Apostolic Academy.”

Mrs Twaddle sneered: “Quite the little renaissance man, is he, Harradence?”

“That's certainly one way of putting it! Now let us leave Mr, or Dr, Finch's character out of it, except to say that he usually masters his brief thoroughly, so you cannot expect easily to trip him up on factual detail. Let us look at what you might convincingly say on this issue... and identify the other things that you definitely should not say...”

Mrs Twaddle looked at Mr Harradence with loathing. “I sometimes wonder whose side you are on, Harradence!”

So do I, thought Mr Harradence wearily. Gwen's the limit; her temper gets worse and worse. She gets ruder by the day; another young woman secretary is about to resign. Sooner or later - I think later, because I have exceptional reserves of patience - I shall throw something at her. Then I'll be sacked and perhaps even be charged with attempted murder or manslaughter, depending upon which item I chuck at her quacking head. My coffee mug, my bust of Clement Attlee (that must weigh a ton), my copy of Erskine May, or something else? And I've a good mind to vote Tory next time round, just to spite her... I never thought that day would come!

Meanwhile he sought to divert his employer onto pleasanter topics: “And please do not forget, Gwen, that you are the guest of honour at next month's Fabian Society Monthly Luncheon; it's quite soon. Your speech will be printed in full in The Fabian Journal. I have submitted a first draft to you and eagerly await your comments and amendments.”

Which, on past performance, will be illegible and unintelligible, he added silently.

Gwen Twaddle gave him a fleeting, wintry smile.

oooOOOooo

Jim answered the phone cautiously; he had been keeping a low profile since The Guardian had broken the story of the Great Rat Massacre. A brisk, authoritative voice that he had not heard before came over the line, firing off observations and instructions like a machine-gun:

“Richard Finch here. I'm the MP for Flogham and Lynchfield. Your friend Charlie Osborne has landed us both in it, hasn't he?” [Mr Osborne was the young farmer who pasted the controversial photos on his Facebook page, causing the rumpus.] “I've drawn the short straw; I've got to reply on behalf of HMG to that old lunatic Gwen Twaddle in a debate on the Great Rat Massacre. Waste of Parliamentary time, of course. How soon can we meet to discuss this? The sooner the better, I think. Can you get up to London this week? You can brief me; I'll give you lunch. How about that?”

“Let me check my diary...” Jim began.

“As I said, the sooner the better!” pursued Richard. “Oh, and I cleared my lines with your boss, Nigel. He gave me the go-ahead to contact you directly. In fact, he'd like to see you at Spooks' Castle after you've seen me; either later that day or the next day.”

That came as a surprise; not many people knew about Nigel or about Jim's connection with him. Nor did they usually refer to Vauxhall Cross as 'Spooks' Castle'.

Bother; that means arranging a house-sitter for Little Kansas for one, or more likely two, days. And overnight in London. Well, I'll charge all that to Nigel!

“So Nigel doesn't mind?”

“He minds, all right, although he sort-of accepts that you were not personally to blame for what happened; even so, he does not like his people to have high public profiles and you have been publicly identified. After this unwelcome publicity you're going to have to keep a low profile for a while. Of course you can go on antiques dealing; No one minds that, but you may find that your overseas travel gets temporarily restricted, especially to Russia, Belarus and certain other former Warsaw Pact countries....”

“Bloody hell! Not Ukraine, I hope? I've only recently discovered Lviv, or Lemberg, as I prefer to call it. It's a great place, including for finding antiques.”

“I don't recall; you'll have to ask Nigel. But when can you get up to London? I need you to brief me in-depth about the facts of the case, if I am to speak for HMG. Bring some of your friends who were there, if you like.”

Jim thought. “I could come up on Tuesday. I normally work over weekends, so that is my day off. There's an early train from Norwich.”

“Right. Come to the House of Commons. There'll be some kerfuffle with security, which I can ease a bit; that can take up to twenty minutes. I'll meet you in the Central Lobby, near the Parliamentary Post Office; you cannot possibly miss that. Can you email me a copy of your ID? … Good man! By return I will email you a photo of me, so that you'll know whom to look for. We won't have lunch in the Palace of Westminster; that place is very insecure, but I know somewhere nearby where we can eat and conspire in complete privacy. I intend to flatten La Twaddle. See you Tuesday!”

Richard rang off. He was as good as his word; after Jim had sent him a copy of his passport's front pages, he received a photo of Richard looking handsome, dashing and arrogant. Next, Jim looked Richard up in works of reference, of which he possessed several.

Richard Finch is now well into middle age, according to his 'Who's Who' entry. In fact he is about old enough to be my father! Yet he looks much younger than his age; no doubt he keeps himself super-fit – I see that he was in the Army – but even so, if that photo is recent, his looks are remarkable.

In the event neither Sir Toby Bloodgood nor Thomas d'Arcy was free to go to London that day, so Jim travelled alone. Before he left, they instructed him carefully about the points that they wanted him to raise with Richard.

oooOOOooo

Richard and Jim met punctually in the House of Commons. Richard said: “Follow me! We're lunching at 'The Commoner'! Fit as Jim was, he found that Richard set a cracking pace and they swiftly negotiated the precincts of Westminster Abbey and crossed Abbey Orchard Street into a maze of older Westminster back-streets. It was hard to keep up. In one of these streets Richard halted in front of a tall, clearly very old, building with a gambrel roof, which brooded over, and dominated, the narrow street. It seemed to be a public house, whose sign proclaimed it to be 'The Dangling Commoner' ('The Commoner', for short). It depicted a Peer and a Bishop in their Parliamentary robes toasting the hanged corpse of a man in late-eighteenth century civilian dress, who bore a noticeable facial resemblance to the Radical Whig leader, Charles James Fox. 

Richard explained that The Commoner was as much a club as a pub: “Lefties wouldn't feel welcome here, any more than in White's Club.” It was a free house that served real ale; the present landlord's family had owned it for about 300 years. It had long been a nerve-centre of intrigue and subversion: Jacobites, including, it had been suggested, Prince Charles Edward Stuart on his secret visits to London in 1750 and 1761, had plotted and intrigued there. The opponents of the Great Reform Bill and the repeal of the Corn Laws, ditto. It was now frequented by right-wing MPs like Richard himself, Irish Peers and hereditary Peers who resented their exclusion from the Lords. Although it was hard to find, if you did not know your historic London by-ways, the bar seemed to be doing a roaring trade. To judge from the accents, it was a mixture of old-fashioned Cockneys who lived locally and members of the upper crust; no-one between them. It was very jolly, basic, 'spit-and-sawdust'. 

“Don't worry; we shan't be eating down here,” said Richard. “We wouldn't be able to hear ourselves think. I'll have a word with Lemuel Sonthiel, the landlord, then I'll show you where we can have lunch. D'you like steak-and-kidney pie and do you like real ale?”

Reassured on both those points, Richard plunged into the fray round the bar and re-emerged looking pleased. Again, he said “Follow me!”.

They were soon clattering up a long flight of echoing wooden stairs. The Commoner was a tall, narrow building; it had space for only two or three rooms on each floor. Jim began to wonder when they would ever reach their objective.

At one point Richard slowed down. “See this carving?” There was a grotesque carving set into the wall; a little gremlin leering and laughing. “Well, look at the stair below it.”

Jim looked. The stair was a different height and width from the others. He turned to Richard for the explanation.

Richard grinned: “It's a trip-step! People who need to know, like me and the Sonthiel family, know about it. Other people, who have no business here, do not know and they trip up, make a noise, scream, swear, bark their shins and may even injure themselves. I would definitely hear. A very simple but effective security device, probably seventeenth century.”

Jim was impressed. Soon after this exchange Richard pushed open a door. This revealed a large, echoing, slightly dusty, room. Much of it was occupied by stacked chairs and collapsible tables, presumably for use when hosting large functions, and bits of lumber. At one time it must have served a more elegant purpose; the walls were wood-panelled and showed some decent carving. The faded ceiling showed traces of a painting. What a shame. Jim looked bewildered; it might be quiet and private but they could not possibly eat here?

Richard strode quickly across to a corner, fiddled with the carving and slowly a panel slid aside. He beckoned Jim to follow. He did, and the panel slid quietly back into place behind him. There was another short staircase, which led to a door with an ordinary modern Banham lock; then another panelled room. It was in much better condition than the room below. The panelling had been polished and the ceiling still showed a faded painted sky with clouds, birds and cherubs. High in the centre Apollo rode in his sun-chariot amid a golden glow. There were carpets on the floor and logs arranged in the marble fireplace. The window gave a view over the roofs of Westminster, with the towers of Westminster Abbey in the foreground. It had been raining earlier; now they glinted in the pale sunshine.

To Jim's approval, there was some plain campaign furniture. There were also a Globe-Wernicke bookcase, a trestle table and a Davenport writing-desk. Apart from a dark portrait of an eighteenth century man in a wig, which was set in the panelling and presumably came with the flat, there were very few pictures and personal photos; one showed a strikingly handsome young officer in DP combat dress with a Para beret grinning and hugging another young officer in front of a white clapboard house. It was endorsed: “I fucking love you, Man! Port Stanley 1982”. For some reason the photo seemed distantly familiar.

Perhaps it's been reproduced in a book.“That you?” Jim asked.

“That's me!” Richard did not seem interested in elaborating. “And this is my Westminster base; few people know of it or are ever admitted to it, so keep mum about it! Nigel's been here, though.”

He then shouted down an old-fashioned speaking-tube. To judge from the racket at the other end, it communicated directly with Mr Sonthiel in the bar down below.

“We're here now. You can send it up!”

A few minutes later a dumb-waiter in the wall delivered two large plates of steak-and-kidney pie with all conceivable trimmings, and two pewter pint-pots of ale. Richard served them, then sat opposite Jim and looked at him.

“Now we can talk. Anything you say here is safe.”

Richard than proceeded to cross-examine Jim like a Barrister:

“So you say that no additional or avoidable cruelty was used when the rats were killed in the old cockpit?”

“Nope. Being killed by a terrier is frightening and painful, to judge from their squeaks, wherever it happens to the rat. But it is very quick and there's only one way to do it. It makes no difference to the rat whether it happens in the farmyard or in the cockpit. It's a lot quicker than a lingering death by poison, which can take up to two days.”

“That's quite an important point!” Richard made notes in a small jotter.

Eventually Richard seemed satisfied, although he went over many of the points that Jim has either raised or answered for a second time, so as to be certain. They were interrupted by a signal on Richard's Mobile. Richard swore, but read the text message anyway.

“Oh, it's from Nigel. He cannot see you today for some reason. Could you call on him at 9.00 AM tomorrow? He's prepared to authorise expenses for a 'reasonably priced' evening, night and breakfast in London.”

“Bugger! I was hoping to get back this evening! And I know what Nigel means by 'reasonably priced': he means a garret in a suburb!”

Richard smiled. “Mr Sonthiel has a few pretty basic rooms for hire, here. I could ask him, if you liked. Or you could stay the night here, for free.”

“What d'you mean? Kip on your sofa?”

“Well, that might be possible, but there is an alternative.”

He crossed the room and threw open first one, then two, doors. The first door gave onto a small dressing room, perhaps originally a guard room, now converted as a bathroom with a shower. Through a further door beyond that was a comfortable-looking bedroom with a large double bed.

“You mean, kip with you?”

“If you'd like: no offence will be taken if the idea does not appeal.”

“It does appeal. I've been wondering what you might be like underneath that beautiful dark suit!”

“Ditto!” said Richard. “Suppose we have a trial run?”

Jim nodded. He felt that he was about to learn something.

“Well, smiled Richard. “Get in there, get your kit off, lie down on the bed and relax. I'll join you in a few moments.”

Jim stripped and hung his clothes carefully over a chair. Then he stretched out on the bed. The bedroom ceiling too had been painted a long time ago, with the Goddess of Night spreading a dark mantle over the fading sunset, assisted by the stars. The windows had been double-glazed, so the room was quiet. The murmur of London was like the bourdon note of a distant organ. It was very restful.

Richard came walking slowly in. Naked, he proved to be very muscular. His skin was smooth and alabaster-pale, like a Roman statue; clearly he seldom sunbathed. His body was completely shaved, which showed off his muscles, and possibly because he disliked the look of greying body-hair. He was noticeably well-hung. Legs apart, he sat down on the bed opposite Jim.

“Move over here, Jim. Let's start with a hug and a kiss.”

The next moment their arms and legs were entwined around each other, they were kissing and exploring each other with their hands.

“You're fucking amazing,” said Richard as he ran his hands over Jim. “I want to really enjoy you, so I don't want to hurry this; and we have plenty of time.”