Read Online This Honourable House by Edwina Currie - Free Book Online
Authors: Edwina Currie
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‘Instructions. We can’t have you making any more promises, Number Ten won’t allow it.’
‘That I’m well aware of. We got our knickers in a twist before the election by making far more pledges than we’d bargained for. The bills don’t add up. Mouths are to be sealed shut from here onwards. At least, till the next election, and that’s way off.’
The private secretary visibly relaxed. ‘Any initiatives have to be cleared first. The pecking order, as you know, is Number Ten press secretary, then Number Eleven, and if there’s any chance of a vote on it in the House, Number Twelve.’
‘The spin doctor, the Chancellor, and the Chief Whip. Yeah, I know,’ Frank growled.
The civil servant looked pleased, as if a recalcitrant pupil had at last grasped an important lesson. ‘So obscurity is the order of the day, Secretary of State.’
Frank shuffled testily through the papers, crossing out the clarifications he had hoped to make. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much chance of you dropping that “Secretary of State” lark, at least while we’re in private? Makes me sound like a bird-of-paradise or something. Can’t you call me Frank?’
The anxious tic returned. ‘I’d rather not, Secretary of State, if you don’t mind. It’s not form. But you can call me William.’
Frank checked to see if the public-school educated official was having him on, but decided that ‘William’ was sincere. ‘And what about the press on the evening, and questions?’
‘No problem. You’ll speak at the end of the meal, replying to the toast to the government, and that’ll be that. The media will not be present in force. They’ll get this press release and guidance from the press office as to what it means, and they’ll be quite satisfied. The Institute of Directors are very reliable on security, Secretary of State. That’s why we thought this would be a useful opportunity for you.’
‘You mean they’re safe, there won’t be any trouble, and I’ll be hard-pushed not to behave myself?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
‘Even if I say nothing at all?’
William bowed slightly.
‘And I suppose,’ Frank persisted glumly, ‘that if I add any remarks off the cuff, crack a few jokes or try to be a human being there’ll be hell to pay? Then I’ll be wading in deep doo-doo for days?’
‘Not only you, Secretary of State. If there’s any kind of fuss, we will have to answer as well.’
‘You especially, I suppose, William?’
‘I am responsible for the content of that script, yes. And for persuading you to stick to it. If I can. Sir .’
‘Frigging hell,’ said Frank, under his breath, but further resistance was futile. He sighed, threw the hated speech back into the red box and closed the lid with a furious bang.
Gail awoke with a headache. Her eyelids were stuck together. A shoulder ached where she had lain on it awkwardly. Her mouth tasted foul. London: the atmosphere was so polluted. Not like the fresh country air of Cheshire. But Cheshire was gone, and she would have to adjust.
The bottle was on its side, a single drip still on its lip. Ring stains marked the bedside table. The smeared glass was still half full. Head down, Gail trudged into the small kitchen, threw the bottle into the bin, washed out the glass and up-ended it on the draining-board. The latest television interview yesterday afternoon had gone well, but the line of questioning had upset her. Getting drunkon neat gin afterwards had not healed anything, but it had been worth a try.
The flat was still crammed with cardboard cartons full of her stuff. She had not had the heart to sort it out, to send what was no longer needed to a charity shop, to hang up her clothes and put away the rest. Some of the prettier outfits would still serve for her media appearances. Mr Maxwell had advised her not to overdress but she had been unclear exactly what he meant: downbeat or scruffy was not in her repertoire. A formal suit required
‘That I’m well aware of. We got our knickers in a twist before the election by making far more pledges than we’d bargained for. The bills don’t add up. Mouths are to be sealed shut from here onwards. At least, till the next election, and that’s way off.’
The private secretary visibly relaxed. ‘Any initiatives have to be cleared first. The pecking order, as you know, is Number Ten press secretary, then Number Eleven, and if there’s any chance of a vote on it in the House, Number Twelve.’
‘The spin doctor, the Chancellor, and the Chief Whip. Yeah, I know,’ Frank growled.
The civil servant looked pleased, as if a recalcitrant pupil had at last grasped an important lesson. ‘So obscurity is the order of the day, Secretary of State.’
Frank shuffled testily through the papers, crossing out the clarifications he had hoped to make. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much chance of you dropping that “Secretary of State” lark, at least while we’re in private? Makes me sound like a bird-of-paradise or something. Can’t you call me Frank?’
The anxious tic returned. ‘I’d rather not, Secretary of State, if you don’t mind. It’s not form. But you can call me William.’
Frank checked to see if the public-school educated official was having him on, but decided that ‘William’ was sincere. ‘And what about the press on the evening, and questions?’
‘No problem. You’ll speak at the end of the meal, replying to the toast to the government, and that’ll be that. The media will not be present in force. They’ll get this press release and guidance from the press office as to what it means, and they’ll be quite satisfied. The Institute of Directors are very reliable on security, Secretary of State. That’s why we thought this would be a useful opportunity for you.’
‘You mean they’re safe, there won’t be any trouble, and I’ll be hard-pushed not to behave myself?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
‘Even if I say nothing at all?’
William bowed slightly.
‘And I suppose,’ Frank persisted glumly, ‘that if I add any remarks off the cuff, crack a few jokes or try to be a human being there’ll be hell to pay? Then I’ll be wading in deep doo-doo for days?’
‘Not only you, Secretary of State. If there’s any kind of fuss, we will have to answer as well.’
‘You especially, I suppose, William?’
‘I am responsible for the content of that script, yes. And for persuading you to stick to it. If I can. Sir .’
‘Frigging hell,’ said Frank, under his breath, but further resistance was futile. He sighed, threw the hated speech back into the red box and closed the lid with a furious bang.
Gail awoke with a headache. Her eyelids were stuck together. A shoulder ached where she had lain on it awkwardly. Her mouth tasted foul. London: the atmosphere was so polluted. Not like the fresh country air of Cheshire. But Cheshire was gone, and she would have to adjust.
The bottle was on its side, a single drip still on its lip. Ring stains marked the bedside table. The smeared glass was still half full. Head down, Gail trudged into the small kitchen, threw the bottle into the bin, washed out the glass and up-ended it on the draining-board. The latest television interview yesterday afternoon had gone well, but the line of questioning had upset her. Getting drunkon neat gin afterwards had not healed anything, but it had been worth a try.
The flat was still crammed with cardboard cartons full of her stuff. She had not had the heart to sort it out, to send what was no longer needed to a charity shop, to hang up her clothes and put away the rest. Some of the prettier outfits would still serve for her media appearances. Mr Maxwell had advised her not to overdress but she had been unclear exactly what he meant: downbeat or scruffy was not in her repertoire. A formal suit required
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