Chapter XIII The Press Release

 

 

Next morning the alarm clock rang incessantly to drag me by the scruff of my neck into that spiritual wilderness called reality. I woke up bleary eyed and desperately anxious to fish back that last bit of fraught dream of me tied to the stake with Melanie Sheldrake about to apply a cigarette butt to my testicles, egged on by Valentina and Lord Smallbridge. I was about to justify myself and to explain to Sheldrake and the others why I did not deserve this terrible fate. This predicament had consumed my entire conscious being. Yet, like the striking pastel coloured corals which, when transported from under the sea onto land, lose all their vivacity and identity, the vivid anxieties and priorities of the land of dreams translate themselves into the dulled neuroses and everyday dread of the woken world. You cannot burrow back down the rabbit hole. You have to face the White Rabbit and the terrifying Red Queen in the real world. 

I was lying in my own bed in my apartment at Frobisher Mansions. Good! That was one element of reality established. It was half past eight in the morning. OK. That was a second part of reality. But how did this relate to my programme for the day? My mind was now circling around the protagonists in the court of the Red Queen to see which ones most need my prompt attention. And when.

When? Of course, the most important thing to establish was the relevance of that “when”. My survival instinct was telling me there was a deadline approaching. Obviously. Otherwise, why had I set the alarm? Could my other senses tell me anything? Well let’s try them out, each sense in turn.

First, let’s start with sight. I blinked and took in the bright light streaming in from the window. I had slept without drawing the curtains. Obviously so as to wake up early all the more effectively. There were no clues from the way my clothes were strewn over my bedroom floor. I was an untidy bachelor at the best of times. That’s what a mother was for after all, if she was still around. There was a curious object lying across my shirt. A horsewhip? Here? Good God. I remembered Valentina’s PVC costume. I racked my memory. I remembered the incidents from the House of Shame. I remembered the colourful reminiscences of the three Russian girls. I was hardly in a position to judge their veracity, but their stories had certainly been vivid. I remembered the sexual games. Even their silly prophecies. That had been a good evening, certainly. But why was the whip here? Had Valentina left me a souvenir of my visit?

Probably. I even remembered the circumstance of my departure. That big brute Nikolai turning up at the girls’ apartment. A last loving lingering lustful embrace from Valentina. A smack of a kiss on my lips and a smack of a hand on my arse from Ludmila. Obviously, the little whip must have exchanged ownership somewhere about this time, though the details were somewhat blurred. Then I remember being escorted politely but firmly downstairs. Instead of being led back to my car, Nikolai drove me straight home in a chauffeur driven limousine. Come to think of it, he did not even ask for my address but just drove me straight here.

Good God! Well that was one bit of reality I needed to adjust to. My car must still be parked in that side drive near Eddington Station even now!  It had probably been hauled away by those morning vultures disguised as Framden Council traffic wardens. Serve me right.

Yet what was this underlying anxiety about something imminent hovering over me? Other than having to recover my car, that is. I tried to use my other senses.

Touch? Right, I could feel a little heavy in the head. I had mixed drinks a little, though I had spent most of my time on vodka. It was but the slightest of hangovers and it was surmountable, but it did not tell me why I needed to be up so fast.

Taste? Well, I could still taste the vodka and the whisky. My stomach seemed empty after that alcohol. Then a new instant fact established itself. I was hungry. Ravenously hungry. “M-U-U-M!”

Yet the sense of taste was still undergoing closer examination. I also remembered Valentina and Ludmila. They may have been ladies of the night, but I had enjoyed their services, generously given to me, without making any payment. “There is no such thing as a free lunch,” I remembered one of my favourite catchphrases. I recalled that the girls had even tossed a coin for me. That memory was certainly a splash of fresh cold water over my face. Did Valentina not say something about being a “thank you” present from the development consortium? I determined not to pursue that line of enquiry for the moment. It was too early in the morning. Too potentially painful. I asked for reports from my remaining senses.

Smell? No. Nothing of significance. Or was that bacon and eggs I could smell from the kitchen?

Hearing? Well, I could hear my mother bustling around in the kitchen. Presumably preparing my breakfast.

Right! That established my first three immediate priorities.

First, get up and get dressed.

Two, eat my breakfast.

Three, recover my car.

Thank you, five senses. Thank you, hearing, for giving me my latest bearings.

Then I remembered something much more sinister. I recalled the trailer video showing my utter humiliation. I rushed to my computer and hastily scanned the website pages for the Mood Swing Pictures website. It did not take long to find. To my amazement the page with my video could not be found at all. Perhaps I had just dreamed it.

Purr! Purr! Purr! What was that, Hearing again? Suddenly my whole being transformed itself into a hearing device. Purr! Purr! What was that? Of course. My mobile phone was ringing. Where was it? I listened intently to the source of the purring sound. I scrambled around my bedroom floor feeling all the objects lying there. Finally, I traced the sound to a pocket in my trousers still lying in disarray on the floor. I picked up my phone and put it to my ear. “Peter Axtell here.”

“I was trying to get you last night!” It was Ted Grayson! “You had your phone switched off all night! Where were you?” Luckily, that was only a rhetorical question as he did not wait for the answer. “Listen, that meeting we were talking about last night. We are going to have it in my office in the Civic Centre. Slightly changed time though. Eleven o’clock. Had to fit everybody in. Is that OK?”

I checked my alarm clock again. It had just past nine. Everything was going to be rushed.

“Sure thing, Ted.” Of course. Now at last I remembered what the imminent deadline was that had haunted my sleeping subconscious. I had forgotten the strategic meeting to respond to the press attack on the Pinkerton Plaza Project. After all, it had been my own suggestion. All the strings in the cat’s cradle had to be identified and the right one pulled at last. The Red Queen awaiting my presence proved to be Ted Grayson.

I rushed into the breakfast room. “M-U-U-M!” I yelled. She came back into the room, cigarette in hand. “Hi, mum, I can’t have breakfast for now. I have to rush to recover my car. Then I will have to go to the Civic Centre again.”

“Have your breakfast, Peter. I’ve prepared a good one. Your car is here anyway.”

“What!”

“I don’t know where you left it, Dear. At 7 in the morning this huge man turned up outside our door in the corridor. I don’t know how he got into the building. He didn’t speak much English. He gave your name and I said you were asleep and that I was his mother. He grunted something, gave me your car keys and pointed through the large staircase window to your car which was parked outside. So, you see, your car is here. Now have your breakfast.”

 

I was still reliving yesterday’s astounding experiences when I started my car. Meena had rung me while I had been eating breakfast and told me that she too had been asked to attend the meeting at the Leader’s office, so could I give her a lift?

Actually, I was quite pleased to give her a lift as she was not able to drive herself and was therefore an appreciative passenger. I like an uncritical passenger to talk to. Though I was a strong anti-car campaigner in my overall approach to urban planning, and a great supporter of public transport, as I relied heavily on the tube to get me to and from work, I actually like driving in London outside of the rush hour.

However, I learned to drive quite late, in my late twenties in fact. I consider myself to be a mature and careful driver, but technically I am not so sure of myself when turning sharp corners in high gear or parking a car. This makes me somewhat self-conscious as a driver. I am anxious to please and to impress. So I drive as if I have a perpetual audience. If I do carry any passengers, especially non-drivers like my mother or Meena, I always appear cool and confident. I refrain from swearing or complaining about other drivers or pedestrians and merely tut-tut when forced to swerve or stop through the stupidity or cussedness of another driver or cyclist. Phileas Fogg would have been proud of me. Then I sometimes have the satisfaction of seeing my genteel passenger swearing and shouting on my behalf and I remain the “cool” driver who appears above all this everyday road rage.

 You see, even when I drive on my own, I still must have an audience, an imaginary one. I imagine my audience is the driver of the car behind me. If there is no car behind me, I imagine one. I check his (or, better, her) presence in my mirror. Then I put myself in their shoes and think to myself what he or she must be thinking of me. “Oh, well swerved...”, “Wow, did you see that acceleration from the lights. Just watch him go.” I could envisage these drivers, whether real or imaginary, commenting on my speed, my style, my road holding, and I would revel in my own praise as a safe competent driver.

Meena did not live too far from me, so I turned up at her parents’ house to collect her. She was part of a larger family with three sisters and four brothers. Her father owned a small supermarket. Meena was the success story of her family as most of the older children helped their father in running the shop. When I arrived, the older children were already at the shop along with their father. The younger ones were at school.

Meena was still drinking a coffee with her mother at the breakfast table and invited me to join them. I had got to know her pushy mother quite well, and despite her being an inveterate gossip and busybody she was a cheerful woman whose practical attitude to life was coloured by romantic notions of love and family loyalty. She laughed at the traditional attachment of Hindu parents to arranged marriages, but she remained sufficiently anxious for her children’s future to want to act the match-maker for each of them anyway. It was a sort of arranged marriage by stealth. I liked her. She was understandably ambitious for her daughter and quizzed me about Council responsibilities and about the relationship between different members of our party. It was obvious she wanted to assess her daughter’s standing in our group, which I assured her was very high.

Meena sat beside me in the car and we drove off through the side road leading to the High Street and our Civic Centre.

“Your Mum’s a cheery soul,” I said.

“I’m glad you think so. She’s after your body, you know.”

“What! Your mum?!”

“Yes,” laughed Meena. “But not for herself. For me.”

I drove several yards in astonished silence. “Not for sex, you understand, but to marry me, silly. She sees herself as a bit of a matchmaker.”

“And marry you to a non-Indian, and an old one at that?”

“Funnily enough, yes. That’s where she is so extraordinarily broad-minded. Mind you, I’m not sure if she were that keen for me to marry a West Indian.”

“Well, Meena. We can’t disappoint your Mum,” I thought the situation quite hilarious. I stopped the car. I looked at her and gave her a kiss on the cheek. She smiled at me, almost beamed. “We need a bit of practice sex first. To make sure we’re compatible. Does your Mother agree with that?”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to ask her in advance.” She seemed a little solemn all of a sudden. Had my remarks been a little too offensive for her liking? She had sent out a welcoming boat to my ship and like an oaf I had tried to swamp it.

We drove a little further in embarrassed silence.

“So, what do you think will happen at the meeting?” asked Meena, obviously anxious to change the subject.

“Well, we have to decide whether we are broadly in favour of the Pinkerton Plaza Development. If so, then we decide on how we make our decision publicly and how we win over the press and the public.”

“What do you think of the project, Peter?” asked Meena.

“It’s an excellent project from every conceivable point of view. It utilizes a derelict former industrial brownfield site, has considerable architectural merit, repopulates 2 ailing schools, gives us new leisure facilities and apparently offers us some cheap social housing along with the more luxury apartments. It seems dovetailed to our Borough Plan. In fact,” I surprised myself by adding, “it’s almost too perfect.”

“Why too perfect?”

“Sorry, just a chance remark, Meena. We don’t look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“Yes, but you obviously meant something.”

Meena could be naïve and idealistic at times, but she was no airhead. She was an ambitious and serious politician despite her young age and sheltered happy family background. She had campaigned for women’s rights in the Indian community, was always vocal in promoting equal opportunities (that all-in humourless catchphrase for anti-racism, promotion of women’s rights, combating anti-gay prejudice and the rights of the disabled) and she was a stickler for political correctness. Sometimes we did not see eye to eye on these issues. She was a committed campaigner against smoking and was one of those urging a ban on people smoking in the open air at bus stops. To me this smelt of health fascism and I did not hesitate to tell her that. I have always been a non-smoker but do not consider it my job to tell other people whether they should smoke or not. As for passive smoking – yet another urban myth used by doctors and newspaper editors to justify hysteria and cover up the low level of diagnosis by the average doctor in this country. My tolerant attitude seemed utterly immoral to Meena.

Her biggest passion was education, a field I did not care about that much, as I had no kids of my own. 

She had sensed that my chance remark had some significance, even though to me it was just a Freudian slip.

“Not really,” I replied. “I’m just concerned that our Planning Department is too close to the development. But that doesn’t mean that the project is not worth supporting on its own merits.”

We drove into the Civic Centre car park, where Councillors had reserved parking spaces. Together we made our way up into the Leader’s office.

It was still 10 minutes to eleven. We were one of the first arrivals. Ted Grayson took me to one side and asked me to talk through the merits of the project at the meeting and then to list the possible objections. After that he would ask the press officer to suggest the best possible approach in terms of public relations. I nodded.

“We’re all counting on you,” said Ted.

Who is this “we”? I wondered. Why is everyone pushing me forward for this project? I hope I’m not some kind of fall-guy, I thought. Then I dismissed it from my mind as too fanciful.

“Owen Draycott has just rung me,” added Ted. “I assured him all was OK.” Draycott was the MP for Framden South. He was also Parliamentary Private Secretary at the Department of Trade and Industry. He was what they called, a “bag carrier” for a cabinet minister. I realized that the project was important to him because it was in his constituency and he would be sensitive to the mix of voters it would bring in come next election time. I did not realize until now though just how much he was interested in the project.

The room slowly filled up. There were nearly fifteen of us present, including Donald McClintock, one of the Councillors for the Claybury Ward where the Pinkerton Plaza project was located. McClintock also happened to be the current newly elected Mayor of Framden. He suggested we move the meeting to the Mayor’s Parlour adjoining the Council chamber so as to accommodate so many people in comfort and privacy. He also offered tea and biscuits, as well as “a wee dram” for those seeking stronger stuff even at that early hour of the morning.

In most Boroughs and County Councils in Britain the Mayor is not the power broker you expect in other countries. In this the directly elected Mayor of London is something of a constitutional exception. Town Mayors come from the ranks of the more senior experienced Councillors and mostly perform a ceremonial role jointly with their spouses. They hold the post for only one year.  Yet for that one glorious year they represent the people of the Borough, wear the mayoral chain and robes of office, ride around in a splendid limousine, get invited to the Queen’s annual garden party in Buckingham Palace, chair the Council meetings about 10 times a year, raise money for their favoured nominated charities and have a little den of iniquity called the Mayor’s Parlour for their more discreet official entertaining.

The meeting got under way. Chris Finneston, brought out the outline plans, as well as the more detailed ones of the development. We talked through the details of the project with which I was now so familiar. I threw in details about the impact on the local schools and all the possibilities of community gain that could be acquired by the Council if they approved this project. I asked the Mayor and the other two Claybury councillors to think of projects local to their ward which could need funding out of this milch-cow of a project. I suggested to the representatives of the different Council departments: Education, Leisure, Social Services, Transport, Planning, Housing, Economic Development, and Consumer Protection to think of at least one borough-wide project from their fields where the scheme funding would be useful. Some suggestions poured in which the Chief Executive duly noted down.

We then moved on to the possible objections to the scheme and the campaign against the project in the press. I pointed out that most of the Councillors from the main opposition party seemed in favour of the project, with the singular exception of Melanie Sheldrake. Yet her populist fervour and sheer strength of personality had caused them to distance themselves from the project.

One serious planning objection to the project, which she constantly harped on, concerned the historic views of central London from Daffodil Hill. This, I assured them, could be dealt with by wheeling on architectural experts from the Greater London Authority. Yes, the higher buildings would be visible, but they would only be one feature of the panoramic view of London, which includes a considerable number of high rise buildings, including the tower of our own Civic Centre. Some skyscrapers would be much more prominent. It was important that the Mayor of London genuinely seemed to favour high rise buildings anyway and it was important to keep him onside on this matter.

There was considerable opposition among local people who were concerned about increased traffic in the area and were always frightened of anything new, especially on this large a scale. They would be concerned with possibility of strangers arriving, described variously as “anti-social elements”, or “foreigners”, or “immigrants”, or “Russians” or “blacks”. These kinds of objectors could often be subjected to racist impulses fed by pub-talk and over the wall gossip. If that was in isolation it could be marginalized by our response. But residual fears of violence in the streets or a drop in the value of people’s properties always needed to be addressed as they were genuine fears and needed to be countered with solid arguments about the benefits to the community from such a monster of a project, such as more leisure and youth facilities, investment in schools and in old people’s homes.

The formal response to fears about house values was to say that these were not a planning issue and therefore not a matter for consideration. It would be a true statement but that kind of arrogant talk, although legally correct, only feeds human fears and prejudices further. If they felt that they were being fobbed off or patronized by the Council then a whole army of resilient and committed objectors could be mobilized easily on a dangerous mixed cocktail of genuine planning objections, fear of change and underlying racism. Unless we were particularly careful such an opposition movement could build up a head of steam and politically derail the Pinkerton Development project.

It was important, I argued, to pre-empt any public meeting organized by the main objectors by holding a public meeting of our own, on our terms and our territory and with us organizing the flow of information. We needed to announce the fact we were holding that public meeting almost immediately. Preferably today. It would catch the local Framden Journal Friday edition and be in the Evening Standard by Monday. The Chief Executive concurred and said that she would organize a venue and time immediately. She rang her own office there and then and ordered her staff to check the Council diary for possible dates and find out which Council-owned offices were available.

There was a discussion as to whether the developers should appear on the platform. My genuine instinct told me that this could be counter-productive. We could be identified too closely with the project rather than just treating it as a statutory Council duty to seek public consultation prior to a strategic planning decision. However, Emil Kapacek had urged that Lord Smallbridge’s presence would have a positive impact on the meeting and I decided not to argue this point.

“How should Sheldrake be dealt with at the meeting?” asked Andy Trosser. As Chief Whip he liked to get all the tactics sorted out.

My suggestion was to get an all-party representation on the platform, including Algernon Batchelor, the leader of the opposition party. I understood that he still genuinely supported the project. Sheldrake would then be forced to speak from the floor and would be seen to be at odds with her own leader. That way too she would only be allowed to speak once, or perhaps twice at most, during the meeting, whereas anyone sitting on the platform could be speaking as often as they chose. It was my belief that if a genuine grass roots opposition group had arisen to challenge this project, it was best to treat the main figures on its elected committee with great respect. You drown them with courtesy and supposed confidences that made them feel important and part of the establishment. There was such a person on the committee objecting to the Pinkerton project, an elderly gent called Dr John Wheeler. Wheeler would then be introduced by us at the meeting and he would be given the chance to speak several times and to make the main statement in objection to the project. This too would channel the storm of opposition through a more easily controllable lightning conductor and leave Sheldrake even more isolated. If she started on her usual anti-Council rant the chairman of the meeting can simply rule her out of order.

Trosser thought I was being too liberal and that the opposition should not be treated with kid gloves. He liked the more Stalinist approach of the Council officers monopolizing the information and keeping the meeting short and informative, allowing at most only questions, and no discussion.

I pointed out, however, that the national press as well as the local London press were already interested in this project and the last thing we should seem to do is to appear to act undemocratically.

The meeting seemed to be swayed by my views, especially when my arguments were supported by the young assistant Council Press Officer, standing in for her boss. “It is a matter of public perception,” she said. “I think it is important to sustain the image that the Council is consulting as widely as possible.”

“Isn’t this business with Melanie Sheldrake getting a little too personal?” a female voice piped up from the back of the meeting. It was Meena. “It sounds like you are doing her down because she’s a powerful woman that you’re all scared of.” Some of those present groaned. This made Meena and the other women councillors bristle with anger.

Emil stepped in with a promise that we could have “an all-woman platform at the meeting to quieten Meena’s fears.” The men councillors laughed. The women decidedly did not. Someone said we could not have a platform at the meeting without me being present. “We’ll dress Peter in a skirt then,” Emil intervened. Some of the older Councillors roared with laughter, but I kept a straight face.

Meena was discomfited by the mockery and I felt duty bound to rise to her defence. “I take Meena’s point about Sheldrake and it is important that our platform party includes some women. Perhaps you could chair the meeting, Meena. Then you can ensure all women get fair treatment, including Sheldrake.”

“I think that would look good from the presentational point of view”, chimed in the assistant Press Officer again. I looked at her approvingly. All I knew about her was that she was a well coutured former PR consultant called Susan Sweetman. She obviously took her job seriously and was not frightened in speaking out. 

Meena seemed somewhat placated by these responses. However, she said she would be happy to sit on the platform but did not want to chair the meeting. Ted Grayson excluded himself, saying this was a Planning matter. It was agreed that Emil should chair the meeting.

The Chief Executive had consulted her staff by then and a date for the meeting was fixed for the last day of June. That was in 8 days’ time. The Committee meeting at which outline planning approval could be given could be called for about 10 days later giving little time for Sheldrake and the opposition to call a counter-meeting and rally their troops. We fixed the Planning Committee meeting for July 12th.

“Thank you everybody for coming at such short notice,” said a visibly grateful Ted Grayson. “Emil, Peter and Meena, you better have a few words together on the format of the meeting. Check the press statement that we issue with the Press Officer. I hope everything goes well.”

He left the meeting. The others were prepared to leave as well, including the Mayor. However, the young Press Officer was still busy preparing the press statement on her laptop. Emil and I were waiting to see the text before it was issued. The Mayor could see we were discomfited by the need to leave the room so soon. “Look Emil,” he said. “You know the ropes. Here’s the key. I won’t need to use the Parlour today and my secretary is on holiday this week. You finish off your script and then leave the key with the Chief Executive’s secretary, when you finish with the room. Oh, and go gently on the drinks cabinet, won’t you, old boy.”

Emil nodded and took the key. The room was now empty now except for Emil, Meena, myself and the Press Officer hastily tapping away on her laptop with her well-manicured finger tips.