Читать книгу Children of the Master - Andrew Marr, Andrew Marr - Страница 13

Always, the politician must inspire people; but not in a ridiculous way, obviously. Not too much …

The Master

When, a few weeks later, the former foreign secretary Murdoch White, himself an Ayrshire man, who had retired to the Isle of Arran after the Egyptian war, called him up and asked him to come for a visit, and to stay the weekend, Davie Petrie was ready.

Most of Labour’s leading figures from Scotland, back in the day, seemed to have died early, or faded away from politics: Smithy himself, big Donald and wee Cookie all went far too early, while Derry, Brian Wilson up in the Highlands and John Reid, now running Celtic, had absented themselves from political life. Murdoch White, however, was still a player in his seventies, a tall, gangling, balding man with a hangdog face, he had kept the flag flying against the SNP and was a regular on the Scottish edition of Newsnight – variously known as Wee Newsnight and Newsnicht. He had retired to play golf and fish, but found that he missed the excitement of Westminster.

The converted manse he had bought looked more like a small baronial pile, white-harled and spacious. Ostensibly, he had lured Davie there to talk about building a glass-fronted extension looking out over the Atlantic breakers. The two men spent most of the weekend walking together and staring at the view, or sitting over a chunky glass – malt for White, gin and tonic for Davie – and, as Davie put it to Mary later, ‘Just blethering.’

Not just. Murdoch needed to know whether Petrie was ‘sensible’. By this he meant, was he basically pro-American, sound on Israel and pro-business?

‘A long time ago, Davie, when you were just a bairn, the Labour Party made itself unelectable with basically communist views. The Master, with quite a few of us helping him, changed all that. He showed that we can have social justice and prosperity at the same time; if we don’t shoot for the moon and if we accept the realities of the world, we can make life better for folk, and they’ll trust us. So not too much of the teenage Trotskyism, eh Davie? Another glass?’

‘Small one, Mr White. You can rely on me. I’m solid working-class, and I won’t sell my people out. But you know I’m a businessman first and foremost. I deal in balance sheets. Hiring and firing. Foreign markets don’t concern me – yet – but I was born with a good hard head on me. I’m not very keen on the Yanks, but who else do we have these days? The fucking Palestinians don’t make me weep.’ He rapped his forehead with his knuckles. ‘Hard heid.’

‘Europe?’

‘Ach, it’s a corrupt old bunfight, but there’s too much money there. By hook or by crook, we have to get back in. No’ the euro though.’

‘As for yourself, what do you want, Petrie?’

‘You won’t be expecting this, Mr White, but the real answer is justice. There’s a guy I want to bring down, and I’m going to bring him down if it’s the last thing I do.’

White raised his eyebrows but said nothing as Davie – he couldn’t help himself – spilled out the story of the Forlaw massacre, the child sex ring, and Lord Auchinleck.

When Davie had finished, Murdoch White puckered his mouth. ‘It’s a horrible story. On the other hand, Auchinleck was always a horrible man. Known him for years. Thank God he’s not one of ours. Well, once you’re an MP – if you become an MP – you can certainly take him down. Parliamentary privilege is a fearsome weapon in the right hands.’

‘You say if I become an MP?’

‘The selection’s the thing. Nicola Sturgeon and Alex Salmond – slippy wee fishes – have almost wiped us out. After 2015, our game’s all about survival. Hold on to the redoubts. Don’t let the bastards through. Fix bayonets. Ireland rations. All that. One day, seat by seat, we’ll fight our way back. But even now there’s a few wee places the bastard Nationalists haven’t got. Glaikit’s wan. So get selected, and you’ll be elected as an MP. Can’t help it, really. The old guy’s retiring – we’ve helped him along a little, and in any case, it’s the kindest thing for him. His ticker’s shot. But getting selected isn’t a formality. It’s a plum constituency, so all the busy little bees – the sleekit Oxbridge boys and girls, never done a hand’s turn – will be up from London buzzing around. Crusade will have their union candidate too, and he – or she – will be formidable.’

Davie had worked all of that out long ago. ‘Aye, but it’s hardly impossible. I’ll be the local candidate, unless they line up the council leader. And I’ve got a lot of friends in the party.’

Murdoch White snorted. ‘No, you dinnae. There are no friends in our trade, laddie. You can’t control what Crusade do, so you’ll have to stitch up all the branch parties early on. Hard graft, no help for it.’ He bent over and vigorously rubbed his face with both palms, as if massaging himself awake. ‘It’s an illusion to think the local candidate has an advantage. That’s what the newspaper writers will tell you, but they know nothing. The truth is, most folk – our side, Tories, Scotland, England, anywhere – are looking for somebody they can project their hopes and ideals onto. They know fine well they’re going to get fooled again, but they want to believe – somebody fresh, bit of glamour, clean sheet of paper. They don’t necessarily want Davie Petrie, that guy who’s been hanging around Glaikit half their lives. Go into this thinking you’re ahead and you’ll fall flat on that bonny face of yours.’

Petrie shrugged, and raised his eyebrows.

‘You need two things, my young friend. You need a story – something to inspire folk. I can help you with that. And you need to show some steel. That bit’s up to you.’

Davie was uncharacte‌ristically quiet over lunch on the Sunday. He handed across the drawings for White’s extension that he’d brought with him, along with several pages of costings. He’d brought two sets. The one he passed over had a 20 per cent mark-up on them; the other 10 per cent. White wanted him, quite clearly; he might at least turn a little profit from that. Neither man was feeling like small talk. By the time a local taxi arrived to take him to the ferry, Davie’s mind was whirring over the task ahead. Murdoch White was quite right. Born politicians proved it first at the local level.

The constituency of Glaikit covered the small town itself, once known for its weaving, and now for having one of the lowest levels of life expectancy in the UK. There were two former mining villages on the outskirts, one of them Davie’s, which had long since been swallowed up by the town. There was a skirt of rich farmland. Glaikit had returned a Labour Member almost since the days of Keir Hardie.

Once he had informed his branch party – a small gathering in the back of the pub, all of them well known to him – Davie had leaflets printed announcing his candidature. Labour here was intertwined with the Catholic Church, and many of the families bore Irish names, so he was badly shaken to learn that Crusade’s candidate was a bus driver called Patrick Connelly – the brother of priests, and well known in the local party. The second piece of bad news was the quality of the blow-ins from London: a popular former government minister who’d lost his seat at the last election, and a senior adviser to the current leader, who’d been profiled in the Guardian, amongst them. Murdoch White had been right. This was going to be a tough fight.

Davie was undressing for bed, tugging off a sock. Mary was already under the duvet. She was pretending to check his Twitter feed, but he could see she was barely concentrating.

‘So. What then?’

‘I don’t like it, love. You’ve built up such a lot here. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

‘You mean you don’t think I’ll win?’

‘I’m no’ saying that … Well, not quite. It’ll be hard, obviously. Those guys from London … I’m just saying … What about the kids? You’re barely ever home at the moment, and when you are, you’re like a great big grumbly bear with a sore head. This … this is all numbers and tactics … doing folk down … putting the best face on. Is that how you want to live your life? Do you actually want a family, big man?’

Davie grunted. This could go either way. Mary’s temperature was rising, and he could see a full-blown row blowing in his direction. He was too damned tired for that. ‘Hey, darling. Wheesht. I know I’ve been an annoying bugger recently. Aye, a bear. It’s been a hard pounding, you know, down the road. I’ve got more than a hundred employees dependent upon me’ – he stabbed his chest with a squat finger. ‘That’s a lot of families, a lot of bread on a lot of tables. And it’s harder getting the contracts in than it used to be. There’s less and less money coming through the council. Everybody’s squeezed by the banks. Bloody taxman’s on my back too, emails every week. So aye, I know I look like I’m not noticing, not listening. And sweetheart, I’m sorry. But see here, if I get a new start, in politics, all of that’ll be off my shoulders. The boys in the office are well capable of dealing with it.

‘I know politics is a mad business, but look at it this way.’ (I’m making a bloody speech, he thought. Good tactics? Bad tactics? Hell, but it has to be said.) ‘The kids carry on here, nothing changes, except that they get regular stays in London – and that can’t be bad for them. I go down there and I work my arse off, we don’t have any scratchy moments, and then I’m home at the weekends and we can enjoy ourselves. The old days again. Play our cards right, and we’ll end up living down there at least some of the time. A whole new life.’

As he’d been talking, Mary had started to comb out her hair, never a good sign. ‘You mean you’ll be down there having the time of your life, dandering about – gadding – up to all sorts. I’ll be left up here alone with the ironing. Where’s my company? Where’s my life? What about our marriage?’

‘You’ve got Mum – you like her. And you never see me during the week anyway. Not properly. You spend all your time thinking about the boys. All you’ll do is swap a grumpy, distracted builder for a rising young politician, spreading his wings.’

‘As long as it’s only your wings. And by the way, do bears have wings?’ He could see that she wasn’t entirely convinced, but at least there was now a half-smile on her face. Storm ducked. Davie yanked down his boxers and slid under the covers. After a few moments of tense waiting, he moved his arm across and began to stroke Mary’s left breast through her nightie. She groaned, exhaled and turned towards him …

‘Brace yourself, Janet.’ The old joke. But just at that moment a loud musical clang echoed up the stairs.

‘Jesus Christ almighty. Who’s that at this hour?’

‘Well I’m not bloody going,’ said Mary. ‘Your dressing gown’s hanging in the bathroom.’

Pulling it around him as he hopped down the hallway, Davie saw a tall silhouette in the frosted glass of the front door. He had a nasty suspicion that he recognised it.

‘Ah – Mr White. This is a bit of a surprise. Er, late, and all …’

‘I’ve never come across a politician who sneaks off to bed at this hour, Mr Petrie. Take it I’m welcome?’ Murdoch White pushed his way into the house, pulled off his wet overcoat and made himself at home in the front room. ‘Newsnight’s still on, man. A small one would do fine.’

Davie gave in without even trying to fight. He went upstairs to pull some clothes back on. Mary was lying under the duvet, and didn’t respond when he explained. She just lay there, pretending to be asleep.

Downstairs, White had given up on the telly and turned the sound down. He drained his whisky, and turned to Petrie. ‘Things all right upstairs?’

‘Oh, yes. We tend to turn in early.’

‘Well that’s going to stop, I can promise you. But I mean, things all right – you know – in the bedroom department?’

‘Mr White!’

‘Oh, I know, not my business. But you see, Mr Petrie, it is now. In a way, that’s why I’m here. On paper, and at first impression, you seem to me to be an absolutely ideal candidate, a man who can help revive our party and bring it back to power. We have faith in you. Some important people know your name. Now, that’s a big thing I’m saying.’

‘Aye, and you know I’m grateful, Mr White …’

‘But if we’re going to put in the time, and the energy, and who knows, the money as well, to help your career, David Petrie, we need to be sure that you can go the distance. Being in politics is a lot like being a top-flight sportsman. We can’t have any distractions. If it turns out that you’re a secret homo, or you bash yourself off to kiddie porn, I need to know now. Even if you and your wife are fighting all the time – that’ll weaken you for what’s ahead.

‘You need to be a good sleeper. You don’t have to have a clear conscience, but you do have to be able to put it to one side. You need to eat well, and to have no more than one or two drinks a day. You need energy, strength, oomph. Forgive me, but you need to be able to crap regularly. More politicians have been pulled down by irregular bowel habits and poor sleeping patterns, just being a bit pasty and weary, than by all the clever ploys of their enemies. So I need to know you inside out. Are you clean, man? Are you strong? What’s behind that shiny pink young face?’

And I thought I made speeches, Davie thought. ‘Jesus, Mr White, you make it sound like I’m joining the SAS or MI6. I thought I was just trying to be a Labour candidate.’

‘Oh, you can be a Labour candidate without our help, if you’re tough enough and wily enough. You can probably become a Labour MP without our help. You might even rise to be a junior minister one day – you’ve got what that takes. But I thought I’d made it clear to you that I’m talking about something different. Something a bit more interesting. I want you to be able to go all the way. And that’s not like the SAS, it’s like running a marathon every week of the year. As far as MI6 is concerned, then sure, you’re going to need a brilliant memory and a talent for skulduggery, and always to be the best observer in the room. The shrewdest. The most attentive. Does all that put you off? Does it frighten you, Petrie?’

Davie realised that he was sitting on the edge of his own sofa, his back upright, while Murdoch White sprawled; he seemed to himself like a little boy at an interview. So he went over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine, forcing himself not to offer the older man a top-up.

‘No, Mr White, it doesn’t frighten me. I’m happily married. No skeletons. I’ve got a pair of good kids – too old for ADHD, too young for drugs. I have the odd glass, but no problems there. As to fit, well, I don’t go to the gym or anything like that, but if you’ve ever tried to run a building company, you’ll know you need to be a pretty tough physical specimen. I think I am. Tough. Pay attention. If I remember rightly, you won your first by-election with a majority of just 2,224.’

Murdoch White, for the first time, shifted slightly in his seat. ‘I did. But what’s that got to do …’

‘Which you increased to 6,550 at the general election two years later. Memory. Or at least a head for numbers. No, I think you and your friends – about whom I’m increasingly curious, by the way – have put your chips down in the right place.’

The two men sat silently, staring at each other, neither smiling.

Petrie stood up again. Where was Mr White staying tonight, he asked politely.

‘Where? Here, I hope. You’ve got a spare room, surely, in a big house like this?’

There was a beat. The clock ticked.

‘OK, sure. Just as long as you’re not going to monitor my visits to the lavatory.’

Murdoch White laughed. Davie showed him to a small room next to the two boys’. After climbing into the narrow bed he lit a cigarette, strictly forbidden by Mary Petrie, before going to sleep.

As Davie returned to bed he thought, ‘The man sleeping in my spare room was once one of the most powerful men in the country. George W. Bush knew him by name. He’s addressed the United Nations. And now he’s in my house. Am I ready for this?’