Chapter III The Oath of Office

 

 

 

   Next morning, I woke late. My mother woke me up. She congratulated me on becoming a Councillor again and to tell me that my cereals and my coffee were ready on the kitchen table.

   I should explain that Mum had a separate room in the two storey apartment I had purchased six years, when my professional partnership began to flourish. I’m a junior (very junior) partner in a quantity surveying business. God, how boring! I know, I know. The building was called Frobisher Mansions, an Edwardian apartment block. In purchasing this flat I had however also taken advantage of the proceeds from the sale of my parents’ house in Harrow after my father had died. The deal was that my mother would live with me in a separate room within the flat but that she would not interfere in my life, my marriage plans, my business or my political career.

   Fat chance of that! Yes, it is true that she did not interfere in my work. I’ll grant her that. Perhaps she thought our secretarial staff would look after me sufficiently. For the rest I had to contend with the constant interference of a sprightly 78 year old lady, wandering around every corner of my flat. She was pampering her only son, of course. That was the general excuse. It was probably a benign interference in so far as she was ready to make me breakfast every morning and cook me meals when I was home in the evening. That was still tolerable. Even when she complained that I did not tell her when I would be home for dinner. It was difficult to blame her, I suppose, as her only ambition now was my future. That and bingo and the desire to have a long cruise in the Caribbean.

   She believed however that she had a God-given predisposition to find fault with every possible female visitor to my flat. She always managed to be present, with her obligatory cigarette, in the television room alongside the front hall as soon as she heard more than one voice after the front door had opened. For male friends of mine like Emil Kapacek or Fred Stevens this was not a problem. A quick and very polite exchange of greetings would satisfy both parties. The exception to this occurred in the course of a greater political crisis when my mother wanted to hear a blow by blow account of how each problem was going to be tackled and could then explain how she had warned her son that such problems will arise if the views of residential organizations are ignored, or we ignored the problem of immigrants, a somewhat embarrassing refrain of hers which we treated, perhaps wrongly, with polite disdain. In any case my parents had never fully understood why I did not follow in their political footsteps. My Mother was resigned to it now, however, even if I did not fully appreciate the gains, she thought Britain had made from that “nice Mrs Thatcher.”

   Worse if the visitors were women, especially women on their own. She constantly made herself visible in a sort of pro-active “absence”. This entailed her brushing against us every now and again, either in the TV room, or the computer room, or the kitchen, and then beating a seemingly apologetic temporary retreat, before re-appearing again, at a different vantage point, and apologizing again, while we sat and talked, mostly politics, or transport problems, or films and theatre and other similar pursuits. She was even able to slip into the bathroom or my bedroom when the action had moved there if she thought this kind of intervention was necessary in order to complete her intelligence dossier on my new companion. Subtlety was not her foremost talent. On one occasion she managed to bump into my bedroom “by mistake” when my head lay buried between my visitor’s long legs, which happened to be spectacularly spread-eagled upwards against the headboard.

   “Sorry, dear, I didn’t know you were busy. I thought your TV was on. Did you want a cup of tea?”

   “M-U-U-M!!!!”

   Needless to say this sort of preventative diplomacy served its purpose. I no longer invited women into my flat if my intentions were other than merely social or political. Perhaps for those same reasons I did not have any permanent partner, let alone a wife.

 

  I came to the Civic Centre and made my way to the Chief Executive’s office at the appointed time. I was to swear my oath of office to serve the people of the Borough. This was done ward by ward throughout the day so the 3 Corindale Ward Councillors were invited to appear together. Meena was already in the waiting room and greeted me with a beaming smile. Melanie Sheldrake was also there and met me with her customary scowl.

   Meena was in bubbly high spirits. She was the Framden North Constituency Party vice-Chair and a history post-graduate student at UCL. She was a bright and chirpy 25 year old Asian, with a naïve wholesome look that appealed to the public ad made her seem trustworthy. She was expected to go far in politics, but this was her first time as Councillor. Like me she did not live in Corindale, so she was dependent on me for advice, both on Council matters and on the local issues in Corindale. I took the opportunity to warn her about the importance of the Party Group meeting that same evening, when Councillors lay down their markers over their future posts and tasks on the Council. I promised to back her in her bid to become Vice-Chair of the Scrutiny Committee as long as she backed me on becoming either Chair or deputy Chair of the Planning Committee. We kept our voices low so that the bitch Sheldrake could not hear us. During a pause in our animated conversation the hellfire witch suddenly leaned forward towards Meena and asked her how Ching was.

   I remembered suddenly that the two women were on talking terms. I had noticed that they had actually been holding a polite conversation for at least half an hour  during the count the previous day. What on earth did they talk about? And who is Ching?

   Their apparent friendliness was surprising. Our side called Melanie Sheldrake the “Ice Maiden” or “Anne Robinson” after the sadistic TV presenter, and with reason. Despite her somewhat handsome face and smart dresses, despite her often smoky voice, despite the fact that to an objective eye she had an attractive body (yes, her breasts were small but her legs were shapely and the shape of her rear could be seen under her knee-length skirt), yet she was feared and reviled as a reactionary harridan. Without raising her voice, she tore into my colleagues during committee and Council meetings and at public gatherings with the cold ferocity of a barracuda and her face would take on a haughty look of disdain. Recently she had made national headlines when she made mincemeat of the Council’s attempt to close a school which had failed an inspector’s report. She watched our budget-making and our long term financial plans like a hawk.

   She had reserved most of her venom for two people. One was our diminutive Leader of the Council, Ted Grayson. This was understandable because of the arrogant way in which he managed to dismiss and humiliate most of the opposition speakers.

   The second was myself.

   There were historical reasons for that. When she had first campaigned against the housing project in the Wilkinson School Playing Fields she had mounted a spirited campaign and sought to ambush the sitting Councillors, including myself, by holding a public meeting to which even the local MP had been invited. There was a London Voice camera crew present, as well as a couple of local journalists. I had sensed a trap and warned off the MP from coming. I had then spoken on his behalf, as well as that of the Council, outlining details of housing needs in the Borough. My comments sought to calm the crowd, but they remained suspicious. To strengthen my arguments, I mocked Melanie Sheldrake’s fanatical opposition, mimicked her voice (big mistake) and rubbished her claim that the new housing estate would consist entirely of council houses. I promised that the recreation land would give access to local people. I then accused her of stirring up this issue either through ignorance or duplicity. Either way, I claimed, she was deliberately misleading the public.

    When she protested, I had steeled myself to challenge her: “Are you just ignorant, or are you lying? Which is it?” As she had tried to mumble her answer, I kept interrupting and badgering her and my voice must have sounded shriller and shriller. “Well, answer!” I continued to bully her as she remained silent. It all must appear very ugly with hindsight, I know, but her method of attack was even more ruthless and anyway I was fighting for a just cause – a much-needed housing development on a landscaped site – as well as for my political life. 

  At the end of the day it was she that won. I was seen to have bullied her excessively. In fact, I confess it now. They were right. It is amazing what political point scoring can make you do, changing you from a normal human into a monster. The public meeting then went against my compromise proposals. In the end, we had to impose the new development without public support and in the face of a cascade of hostile letters to the local press. Furthermore, we lost the subsequent vote in the elections. She never, never forgave me for the brutal way I had treated her that day. The cow had won my Council seat and she took it from me with relish! So there was no love lost between us all round.

  Anyway, Sheldrake was seemingly polite to Meena and made a point of ignoring me.

   The Chief Executive’s secretary waved us into the room where we took our oath. Sheldrake and I swore on the Old Testament, Meena on the “Bhagavad-Gita” – the ancient Hindu sacred text.  I made some light hearted comment about which one of these books was older and which one had more picturesque legends.

   “What a trite comment to make on such a solemn occasion,” hissed Sheldrake “Why don’t you treat a moment like this with some dignity, you ignorant man?”   

    Her unexpected rudeness took me aback. I turned to Meena and the Chief Executive and lifted my eyes skyward with mock horror. They had been rooted to the spot with shock and embarrassment by Sheldrake’s comment, but now they both grinned at me, though the latter immediately tried to recover her solemn mien. Sheldrake stormed out.

   “See what a bitch she is?” I asked Meena, as we left the room.

   “She obviously doesn’t like you. But then you’re a bit of a male chauvinist,” she laughed. “Well, you can be so patronizing sometimes, you must admit”. Like most of my political colleagues, Meena was a stickler for political correctness and the equal opportunities agenda. She did possess a sense of humour though, and this prevented her from sounding too sanctimonious. “Still, I’ve spoken to her, and she’s not that bad. I found her very human, very understanding, actually,” she explained.

   “You what! Meena??! What on earth can you find human about her?” I asked. “Yes, and by the way, who’s Ching??”

   “My chow.”

   “What?!”

   “My chow chow. My dog. He was out of sorts yesterday. She gave me some good advice on what pill to take. She’s already better today.”

   “Your dog??” Then I remembered. Of course. Melanie Sheldrake is a bloody vet.

 

   With all this unpleasantness you may wonder why I was involved in canvassing and in politics at all. So why did I do it? Because I wished to win for my party? Possibly. I obviously enjoyed the respect and friendship of my fellow party activists whose ideals I often shared.

   Did I stomp the streets because I had ideals? Well yes, I did have ideals. Somewhere. Once I had many. In the 1980s as a student, I had marched against apartheid and against cruise missiles. I had marched in support of Solidarity in Poland and against the generals in Argentina and Chile. I had marched against increases in student fees and took part in a poll tax riot. In my twenties I had organized public meetings and I had learned how to speak in public and to utilize the media. Somehow these causes seemed so simple then, so clear, so strong, so obvious. Where had all these causes gone now? There was still the war in Iraq, but the issue was hardly clear-cut. Yes, I still protested against the treatment of Palestinians, I supported a separate homeland for the Kurds and independence for East Timor and for Tibet. But my passion for these causes was somewhat spent.

  Of course, the enemy was at home too. I still felt strongly on issues like freedom of the press and prison reform. I was increasingly concerned over energy issues and the climatic chaos emanating from the world’s misuse of its energy resources. Locally I supported waste recycling schemes and campaigned for bus lanes and cycle lanes, for restraints against the car (while cheerfully using mine, I must admit), for solar energy panels and for ecology areas in parks. I wanted to urge my colleagues to implement measures that would discourage parents from driving their kids to school in the morning. My real passion was protecting street trees. I was also concerned over the quality of education and discipline in schools and was very supportive of the introduction of new teaching technology, such as the white boards. I hated the commercially driven compensation culture that made it more and more difficult to provide adventure playgrounds and sand pits and obliged schools to cancel education trips and sports outings. I still wanted the Council to give generous provision in its social services to older people and to ensure a free house insulation service for all pensioners in their seventies and over. These were all noble positive causes in their own way.  After all, as I used to say to myself during my more cynical moments, even a dirty street puddle can reflect the sky.

  Yet ultimately was that satisfaction really altruistic? It was personal. I have to be honest here. Basically, I enjoy being a Councillor. I enjoy being able to help my constituents. I enjoy seeing the pleasure on their faces when I had managed to obtain some benefit for them or to right a wrong. I enjoy being thanked and recognized in the street. I enjoy the power that enabled me to help people. But it is only then that I feel really fulfilled. I do not find it difficult to like people, but I prefer it even more when they like me too. 

  So, yes! I have to confess that my so-called selfless help for others was really very selfish. I was selfish in my selflessness. Aren’t we all in a way? I genuinely enjoy the company of people, male or female, young or old. But is it not because I need an audience? Preferably an audience that is enjoying itself? So I woo and butter up the people I canvass, charming them and convincing them, shamelessly flattering their appearance, their houses, their gardens, their cars, their children, and listening intently to their views and complaints with my head either nodding sympathetically or tilted beguilingly to my left, my eyes innocently open and my judgement innocently suspended as I sought their approval and their vote. Luckily, I possess a firm and honest seeming handshake, and I can give quick peck on the cheek for the female voters when they declare for me outside the school gates (“pour encourager les autres”) and I can give a promise, sincere at the time it was given, to treat their complaints and problems seriously after I am elected. I try and ensure that every person who left me with a complaint or engaged me in a longer conversation received a letter from me afterwards assuring them that I would prioritize their concerns as soon as I was elected. This way I can indulge my wish to be liked.

  I have to confess too to a craving for being praised, for being popular, for being recognized in the street, for being a somebody when I am introduced socially, “Oh, this is Peter, he’s…..” followed by the gratifying: “Oh, I’ve heard of you” or “I know who you are…” Then, internally, I melt like butter on toast; outwardly, I stand tall and nod at them appreciatively. I pretend how simply chummy and unpretentious I really am. With fame as my prop, I can actually pretend to be the ordinary decent chap that lives next door. Without that prop it is different. I feel like I’m a social cripple, a nothing, a shit.

    Yes, I need to be famous. My favourite childhood hero, as I think I may have said already, was Phileas Fogg from “Around the World in 80 Days”, the cool caricature of a self-confident, even arrogant, Englishman (created by a Frenchman, of course) who always remained unruffled, never excited, regardless of whether he faced triumph or disaster. I liked to pretend to be the strong silent type, never seeking the limelight and never seeking praise even though that is exactly what I am hungry for, that very recognition and praise that I am not apparently seeking. This may seem a contradiction, but was it really?

  To earn that praise I have to instinctively seek what my constituents and voters want or prefer. That would probably explain one of my stranger attributes in the political word – my ability to recognize the other person’s feelings and point of view, particularly my opponent’s. I seek their insights and I sense their private ambitions as they spout their public aims. I see myself and my principles and arguments through the eyes of others. This is an attribute, that is true. It helps me in public debate, in pulling the punches of those attacking me and of presenting my arguments in a way  that I do not offend personally  even when I attack them. (Unless it’s Sheldrake, of course.) I know where their weaknesses lie, where they are most vulnerable and also on what they are prepared to sacrifice or negotiate away.

  While this insight is to a certain extent a true and valuable gift, it is also a curse. If I see the other person’s point of view, do I water down my own views? I may perceive my opponents’ weaknesses but I might also expose my own. Unless I am driven by anger or passion, then this ability to see myself as I think others see me, robs me to that firm resolve to make selfish decisions which every decisive person should possess, whether in politics, or love, or arguing with your plumber. I lack the single-mindedness of the fanatic or the committed crusader. I am repelled by extreme passions whether they are on my side or that of my opponents. I can only overcome this gifted curse by steeling myself to make a hard decision after I have weighed up the pros and cons. I can hold a well-argued line, weighed up by the synthesis of opposing views, but the resulting firmness, cloaked with reason and generosity to an opposing view, lacks that most precious of political virtues – true conviction. My own ego may be camouflaged and well-honed following weeks of preparation of analysis. It may look attractive in a travelling coach, but that coach might just fail to arrive on time for the ball.

    At the triumphalist Party Group meeting the same evening we had a four hour session at which we carved up the cabinet posts, committees, school governorships and representative bodies between ourselves.

   Ted Grayson, a small Danny de Vito look-alike, was re-elected Council leader. The opposition charitably call him “the poison dwarf”, but he was a good speaker, a sharp debater with a strong line in sarcasm and a special talent in cutting political deals within the Group, with the opposition, with business developers, and with the unions. He congratulated the Group on its re-election victory, welcomed the new Councillors, including Meena and me, and explained to us how the new Cabinet system would work. This was because we had finally moved away from a committee system of running the Council, the one that I had been used several years ago, where all Councillors sat on one or two committees and these ran all the business of the council. About six times a year a full Council meeting was held and the agenda overwhelmingly consisted of all the minutes of committees and sub-committees of that cycle being approved. This way every Councillor had a bit of devolved power as the business of his committee was dealt with and then approved at the full Council.

  Apparently, we were the last of the London Councils to be doing this change to a cabinet system. This would make a small number of Councillors virtual full-time professionals and make competition for positions much sharper. It meant that a small clique of councillors had all the power and responsibility, and the rest could concentrate on the business of their wards if they were conscientious, and otherwise just sit back, read the newspaper at full councils meetings and otherwise pick their noses. They were voting fodder for each of the political parties, especially for the dominant party, namely ours, which ran everything.

   My old friend, Emil Kapacek, had been a bit bleary-eyed that morning after his evening at Pinks, but he had obviously spent the afternoon in cutting some deals with his senior colleagues in the Group. He dropped his bid for becoming a cabinet member for Housing and went for the Planning Committee instead. This had prevented me from standing as Chair of Planning against another Councillor, called Perera, from a more radical faction, but Emil had a wider following than me, and was more likely to beat him. After all, there were many newer Councillors from the previous election, who did not know me personally. In the end I stood against Perera for the post of Deputy Chair of Planning, but at the last minute he stood down in a huff and I was elected Emil’s deputy unopposed.

   Meena won her post as Deputy Chair of the Scrutiny Committee, following support from its existing Chair, Bill Kitson. Her particular brief on this Committee was Education. This was a big success for her considering that Education was the biggest single spending item in the Council budget. More than 50% of the Council’s financial income is budgeted for schools, nurseries, colleges and youth centres. Because she was a newcomer to the Council and visibly ambitious and able, she was resented by many of the older male Indian Councillors, particularly because of her work in founding a shelter for battered Asian women. Ironically, that made her that much more of an attractive candidate for the white Councillors and she sailed through.

  As the meeting drew to a close our Chief Whip, Andy Trosser, came back to the meeting after a short absence. He had just exchanged a few words with his opposite number in the main opposition party.

   “Well, as you can guess, old Algie Batchelor’s re-elected as their leader,” he announced. Then added, “But you’ll never guess who they’ve elected Deputy Leader?”  

  Members of the group shouted out a few random names, but Trosser shook his head. “No, it’s the Ice Maiden herself, bleeding Sheldrake”. I was not the only person to groan.

  As the meeting ended Emil and I walked out together. We passed Trosser on our way out.  He accosted us and leaned his heavy bloated frame in our direction. “And do you know on which Committee, Sheldrake will be the opposition spokesman?”

 ???

 “Yours, mateys. On Planning Committee.”