Chapter XXVII The Second Prophecy

 

 

I had just over a week before the fateful Planning Committee meeting. I was under pressure from my party leadership to ensure that planning approval went through without a hitch. I also had a secret understanding with a Special Branch officer that I would reject that same application but to do so at the last minute before the supporters of the application were aware what was happening. I was now aware of what it was like to be a double agent. Of course, I also had a normal job to pursue, a point which my partners were anxious to remind me of every now and again.

Because of the ambiguous role I was playing I was feeling desperately alone. Even Meena was unaware of the full extent of what I was undergoing. Only Melanie Sheldrake knew what my intentions were, but officially she was the opposition and whatever our recent intimacies we were obliged to continue our role as sparring partners. If there was now chemistry between us it still contained plenty of sulphur. Indeed our exchanges were almost like the advent of a summer season special. Were this Christmas we would have been a pantomime feature.

I had taken the bold step of taking aside 3 of my Committee colleagues, Noel Graham, Meena’s friend Angela Craven and retired fireman, Fred Potts, an old working class planning hand, who tended to be naturally suspicious of any glossy new projects that destroyed the old communities that he remembered from his youth. I warned them that I had misgivings now about the planning application in Claybury Ward and that I had asked certain (unnamed) planning officers for more information. I asked them to keep the matter quiet as we did not want the opposition to play up on our uncertainty and I promised to brief them just before the meeting and discuss with them how we should vote. They nodded. I sense that they were thrilled to be part of some conspiracy, though Fred Potts kept repeating “Well I was against this new-fangled development right from the start. This is good industrial land. Thousands used to be employed here. What’s happened to them now?” We listened to his diatribe sympathetically and we did not bother to comment. After all Britain was changing. The post-industrial society was also a post-Fred Potts society. No need to rub it in.

My increasing inner tension over my split loyalties and the double-bluff in which I was engaged, made me suspect that not only did I still have the secret audience which I always seemed to crave, especially when I was driving or walking in the corridors of the Civic Centre, but that I was now being shadowed by real mysterious stalkers in cars or on foot. This was not so much out of a sense of alarm, but as part of my vain belief that whatever I did was the centre of the world’s attention, where my actions were being judged by others and every word I spoke weighed up for hidden meanings. I straightened my back, checked on the state of my clothes more thoroughly as I dressed in the morning (especially as I no longer had my mother to iron my shirts and brush my jackets) and spoke in clipped sentences, eschewing politeness for precision and my usual verbosity for brevity in my speech. Phileas Fogg would now really have been proud of me.

 As the summer holidays were approaching there were fewer activities on the Council calendar. Traditionally only the planning and licensing committees met during the summer break. There was one last Council meeting to be held. This time it was held in the Bernie Grant Room on the ground floor of the Civic Centre. Donald McClintock was still insisting in his Mayoral capacity that the Council Chamber itself should be closed to undergo long overdue renovation. Frankly we had to agree with hindsight that this was a sensible view as it kept the press cameras out of the Civic Centre and we could count on the fact that by the time we next held a meeting in the Council Chamber in the autumn, press interest in THAT chair would have probably blown over.

The Council meeting on Wednesday evening was a stormy affair because the main opposition party had a new leader, Melanie Sheldrake. She had obliged Batchelor to resign for reasons that were unclear to most people, except perhaps to me, as I knew that old Algie had been a recipient of Nafta Ural’s petrodollars. At the opening questions to our cabinet members her presence was already felt even though the questions had been penned and published on the agenda before she was elected opposition leader. The original questions were often mundane about parking statistics, wasted revenues in the education budget and serious arrears in council tax collection and so on and a sleepy monotonous answer would follow a sleepy monotonous question. But the supplementary question would be fired by Melanie or by her new deputy leader, a young firebrand called Oliver Gilpin, which put a sudden rocket up our committee chairs’ blocked back passages. Grayson had to mumble an unconvincing explanation about why he had failed to renew a contract with an arrears enforcement agency at a time when more than £5 million in tax arrears were still apparently outstanding; Kitson had to explain why at least 300 children had not yet been found a place in their local secondary school even though the summer holiday were now well under way; our Finance Panel Chair, Councillor Desai, was hard put to it to avoid the old chestnut about parking fines being imposed largely as a new source of revenue for the Council rather than as part of our transport strategy. Melanie even raided the seemingly safe areas of toadying questions planted by our own toadying councillors to their own lazy cabinet members anxious to squeeze out some last drop of positive publicity for their work on the Council. She and Gilpin had their hands up straight away and catching the Mayor’s eye with crafty supplementary questions which took our own leaders completely by surprise. Melanie had a sharp grasp of how Council finances work, which was a science that eluded many of our own Councillors, including, I have to add, myself. A terrier with teeth and a knowledge of maths was a formidable political animal.

On one occasion, a tame question from one of our councillors to Ted Grayson which elicited a self-serving response concerning new watchdog procedures on potential child molesters amongst our roster of foster families, was followed by a blistering intervention from Melanie referring to the incident with Emil in the Council chamber and describing the “putrid smell of moral decay permeating this council leadership. Why has Councillor Kapacek not resigned yet? He is not here today and he is not apparently serving his ward.” I could see Andy Trosser getting more and more perturbed by the incompetent performances from our side. He watched helplessly in frustration as the newspaper scribes avidly recorded each and every one of Melanie’s merciless and mocking interventions.

I was luckier. On the grounds that at the last Planning Committee there was a minute to the effect that the Pinkerton Plaza project had been deferred for a site visit, Melanie had been able to table a question to me about the nature of public consultation about the scheme. “Could Councillor Axtell assure the Council and the people of Claybury Ward that every effort will be made to give voice to the views of the community who are so united in their opposition to this hideous development?” (Cheers and table thumping from the opposition party).

To which I replied that “I am delighted that Councillor Miss Sheldrake has already prejudged the issue as to what the community thinks before any consultation had been completed. (Laughter). Let me assure the residents of Framden Borough that every effort will be made by the Council to ensure that a proper consultation will take place, including the voices of those who feel positively about this development. Councillor Miss Sheldrake is well aware of the existence of these voices from the public meeting that took place on Thursday last and where she was given the privilege of participating from the platform while the leader of the newly founded Pinkerton Plaza Residents’ Action Committee, Dr John Wheeler, was also able, at our insistence, to take an active part.” (Cheers, laughter and more table thumping from the governing party.)

Back she rallied. “Is not the Chair of the Planning Committee aware that many of the participants in that meeting were not even residents of this country, let alone this Borough, and had been hired to intimidate the true opponents of this scheme which had corrupted the very ethics under which decisions are taken in this borough?” (Uproar, stamping of desks from both sides of Council, shouts of “Withdraw!” followed by shouts of “True! True!”)

“Order, order,” shouted a furious Mayor. “Councillor Miss Sheldrake please be very careful with your language and your accusations in this Council chamber. Have you finished your question, Councillor?”

Melanie looked at Donald contemptuously. Then she looked at me defiantly and ploughed on. “Surely the new Planning Ayatollah, Councillor Axtell, is aware of the amount of money spent by these so-called developers on entertaining members of this council, for instance at the site visit on June 21st and at the public meeting June 30th and will agree with me that this is a mendacious form of promotion of a mendacious development which will bring long term harm to our Borough?” (More opposition cheers and cries of “Withdraw” from our side.) I glared at her and she glared back at me. For all intents and purposes the Council chamber was convinced that our mutual hatred was driving us on. I saw the intensity in her eyes, I saw excitement, I saw mischief, I saw fire. But I no longer saw the old hatred. Luckily, others could not see what we could see.

“Order, order,” called out Donald. “Councillor Axtell to reply!”

 “Mr Mayor, I have to confess that no passport checks were made at our public meeting (laughter) and consequently it is possible that some New Zealand backpackers and future EU citizens from Poland and Cyprus may have got into the meeting. (More laughter). Yet it is the nature of public meetings that they are just that – meetings for the “public”, open to all members of the public who are interested, even, unfortunately, to those hideous racist organizations whose filthy leaflets were circulated at that same meeting, leaflets which I did not hear Councillor Miss Sheldrake condemn once, even though Dr Wheeler did so.” (Cries of “shame”). And Mr Mayor, if you will permit me to comment on the site visit, may I say that there were some refreshments available (Laughter on each side of the chamber) but also a considerable amount of useful information that would be vital for Councillors before a decision, an informed decision, I should stress, is made next Tuesday about this important development (Cries of “Hear, Hear” on the governing side). And if the lack of choice of her favourite wine caused Councillor Miss Sheldrake to leave the meeting early and without all the information, we cannot be blamed for that.(Laughter, table thumping, cries of “More, more”, “Give her some Chardonnay”).”

We exchanged glares yet again. Did I not see just a flicker of the old anger there on this occasion? Had I pushed it too far? Or did I imagine it? 

When I sat down my back was aching from all those colleagues of mine sitting beside me and behind me, thumping me with all their might. They were ecstatic in their joy as if I was St George who had just slain the Sheldrake dragon. I basked in this praise from my fellow Councillors and I preened myself inwardly, though on the outside I retained my Phileas Fogg mask of supercilious and effortless disdain. I had always loved playing to the gallery and on this occasion the gallery had not skimped with its applause. However as the hot flush of euphoria receded I was suddenly aware that all I had done was that I had temporarily taken an advantage of quite a magnificent lady (who had allowed me to have the temerity to thrash her naked behind several days ago because she needed to draw my attention to the disastrous impact of the “Pinkerton Fortress”). All the rest was play acting.

The press had a field-day, as did the London TV news programme for the BBC. Framden was still good copy for the popular press because of the recent mayoral chair incident and the Pinkerton Plaza development had drawn in both the Framden Journal and the Evening Standard. Melanie was certainly the hero of the “Standard” as the reference to the “putrid smell of moral decay” was headline news the next evening when she and Gilpin were widely quoted. On our side I was the only Councillor to be given positive coverage but only in a smaller paragraph on an inner page, where my “scoffing riposte” to Melanie Sheldrake was recorded. There were accounts of our Council meeting in the Thursday  tabloids, specifically the “Mail” and “The Sun”, both equally scathing of our side, praising the courage and leadership of Melanie Sheldrake, and both, as if by magic, mentioning me in passing as having robustly defended the Pinkerton project (which strictly speaking I had not.).

Yet in the bar after the Council meeting Trosser seized my arm to shield me more from more sadistic back-slapping colleagues, including a glowing Meena who preferred pinching my bum. He took me aside to a quiet corner of the bar, lowered his fat balding frame towards me and whispered in my ear, “Framden South. Are you interested?”

“You mean the parliamentary seat?” I asked naively.

“Yes of course. Claybury, Corindale and Winchcombe Green Branches are all ready to nominate you. I think that London Region would be happy to support a strong candidate with your reputation. I don’t know if the Cabinet Office wants to parachute someone in, but this is no safe seat. Especially after the nature of Owen’s departure. I don’t think 10 Downing Street wants to put forward their own candidate who could lose the seat in a by-election. The wind is really in your sails. Interested?”

“Yes, Andy, I am interested. You can tell them I will put my hat in the ring.”

“Frankly, Peter, if you carry on with performances like today, your hat will be the only one there. Just get that development through and we can all breathe again.”

“Andy, there is massive opposition to that development. Do you really want to pick a candidate who will be held responsible for such an unpopular decision?”

“Well you have the style and panache to pull it through. Look, Peter, you’re the planner. I’m not. I look after the interests of the Party; I’m only interested in that we retain power and use it for the good of the traditional community that supports us. You say this development is important; so do Ted Grayson and Bill Kitson and your old friend Emil. That’s good enough for me. We will do what we have to do. And I know you can do it. Above all, you are trusted. You are trusted by party members and by members of the public. You’ll be a good candidate.”

“Would not Grayson or Kitson be better candidates?” I countered.

“Ted has done his stint for the Party. He’s even having problems now as Council Leader. This Sheldrake is a real danger. You are the only one who seems capable of defending us from her attacks. And Kitson is OK on schools and colleges, but he is not a fighter. Only a fighter, like you, can retain this seat for us. You can do it.”

“Andy, thanks for your comments. I am interested. Do me a favour. Let’s come back to this topic after Tuesday when we’ve had our Planning Committee meeting.”

“OK. Remember now that the Council has confirmed that I am replacing Emil Kapacek as a committee member, so I can give you all the support you need.”  

This conversation gave me a lot to think about. I did not mean the nominations. I was already aware of them. However, the Russian witches’ prophecy about my becoming an MP seemed to be self-fulfilling. Certainly Andy’s support was very flattering.

I was more interested in Andy Trosser’s ambivalent attitude to the development itself. There was now no doubt of it in my mind. Trosser was not part of the bribed brotherhood. At last I had found a senior figure with whom I could steer the Group away from the development. I needed to discuss that with Roger Clements.