When We Were Rich Page 9

  Nevertheless, says the chair, firmly.

  Fraser sits down all the same leaving his arm limply, contemptuously, raised.

  Nodge puts his hand on Fraser’s shoulder, as if in consolation, but Fraser shrugs it off.

  Frobisher, a chubby yet shrivelled woman in her fifties, stands up brandishing a document which she simply seems to use as a conducting wand for her words. It appears to be the minutes of the last meeting. Fraser looks at her with open resentment.

  Thank you, Chair.

  Her voice is like a fork scraped on the base of a skillet. She nods towards the trestle table, and, taking her time, calmly addresses the room.

  I believe this branch, she says, coolly, stealing a glance at Fraser, who still has his arm up, and his lips pressed together, must support the official Labour candidate for the post of London Mayor. And therefore I oppose the motion.

  A wave of dissenting boos travels immediately across the room.

  Stitch up! yells Fraser, furiously. There are cries of ‘hear hear’.

  Frobisher, unabashed, continues.

  I understand very clearly that there are those who believe that Ken Livingstone more closely represents the ideals and the objectives of certain parts of the Labour Party.

  The real Labour party, interjects Fraser, to a few cheers and a roughly equal number of catcalls.

  I emphasise. Certain parts. However, I believe we must all put our weight behind Mr Dobson now to ensure that Stephen Norris is firmly defeated.

  Who’s he? shouts another wag.

  Tory candidate, answers another, apparently missing the irony.

  One of the several Tory candidates, says Fraser, pointedly. Because I can’t tell the difference between one side and another anymore.

  Shut up Fraser, shouts an elderly-looking Jewish man from across the other side of the room. Frank Dobson has served this party for twenty years with loyalty and conviction. All your sort ever does is pick fights.

  It’s called principles, spits back Fraser. And what exactly do you mean by ‘your sort’? What about your sort?

  What’s that meant to mean? responds the Jewish man, rising to his feet.

  Order, please, calls the chair.

  Trot, mutters the old man, sitting down again, and looking with hooded eyes towards Fraser, who gives him a moue.

  If I could continue, says Ms Frobisher.

  If you must, mutters Fraser, bitterly.

  I wasn’t asking your permission, brother Pike.

  All this time Nodge stares at the floor, wriggling on his chair in discomfort.

  Frank Dobson, whether we like it or not, is the official Labour candidate, she goes on.

  Control freakery, yells a young woman from the other side of the room.

  Fraser nods vigorously.

  If I could continue, says Ms Frobisher, more firmly this time. She waits for the room to fall silent.

  In my view Ken Livingstone has let his own personal ambitions . . .

  The room erupts.

  Order, order, calls the chair.

  Tainted! Tainted! shouts a woman on the other side. Another Millbank fix!

  Even though, resumes Frobisher, calmly, there is some doubt as to whether Ken Livingstone will stand as an independent candidate, from what I hear, we must assume this to be the case. So I call today, on behalf of this branch, on Ken Livingstone to withdraw his name from the race, to clear the way for Frank Dobson and make sure that this great party—

  Not much great about it anymore, shouts Fraser.

  . . . That this great party can gain a working mandate to govern the greatest city in the world. Thank you, Chair.

  Can I speak now? says Fraser, rising to his feet.

  You already have, says Frobisher, tartly.

  Someone has turned the music system up in the pub upstairs and it is becoming harder and harder to hear what is said. Now it’s Cher’s ‘Believe’.

  Fraser raises his voice to make sure that he can be heard. Nodge, looking up from his sitting position, notices small bubbles of spittle emerging from the corner of his mouth.

  Can I just say . . .

  What?

  That I fucking love Cher.

  There is laughter. The atmosphere relaxes. Nodge raises his eyes from the floor. Fraser’s face hardens once more.

  Cher aside – may peace be on her – this ridiculous fit-up by Millbank has got to be resisted.

  Cheers and whoops. Heartened by this, Fraser raises his voice still further.

  This so-called democratic election included the grotesque phenomenon of the Engineering union dispatching four per cent of the entire electoral college on the whim of just fifty-nine people. Fifty-nine people! Is that democracy? No! As usual. The system is corrupt, because Blair and Brown are scared of anything that might look like REAL politics, REAL socialism, or a move towards a REAL Labour party.

  Tony Blair won us the election! interjects Frobisher. Isn’t that real enough for you?

  Order! calls the chair.

  At least Ken actually stands for something.

  He stands for himself and his ego.

  For Gay Rights. For Equality. For Ethnic Minorities.

  Don’t make speeches. You’re not in the pulpit.

  Livingstone’s not going to stand as an Independent anyway, interrupts a young black woman with a faded T-shirt that reads ‘Things Can Only Get Better’. Even if he did he wouldn’t have a chance of winning. He hasn’t got the machinery behind him.

  He stands against Islamophobia. Against the nuclear deterrent. Against racism, continues Fraser, almost shouting now against the row coming from above and within the room.

  Against, against, against! says Frobisher. But what is he for?

  Even Unison has said that Ken should stay loyal, says the chair.

  You’re meant to be neutral, says Fraser, furiously. Unison are sellouts.

  You can’t seriously want the vote to be split, says Frobisher. Your petty personal concerns should not get in the way of what the party needs. Or we could easily get a Tory victory. Another Horace Cutler is just what this city needs.

  Ken got seventy-five thousand votes of those balloted, says Fraser, furiously. Dobson got twenty-two thousand. How’s that fair?

  It’s not about fairness! It’s about winning elections! shouts a Rasta in a suit.

  He’s just a sore loser, mutters Saul. And he’s a Jew-hater. Everyone knows that.

  He’s at least promising gay marriage, shouts Fraser. Though I don’t suppose you’d fancy that much would you, Saul? Or his stand on Palestine.

  Outrageous! Anti-Semite! Saul rises to his feet, wagging a finger at Fraser.

  Zionist! shouts Fraser back in his face.

  Order, shouts the chair, desperately now. He has also risen to his feet.

  It’s back to the loony left! shouts Frobisher, as angry as Fraser.

  The debate rages for another ten minutes before each of the participants seems to be exhausted. Nodge has not said a word.

  Finally, the moment comes for the vote to be cast.

  All those in favour of the motion opposing Mr Dobson’s candidature.

  Fraser’s hand shoots up. As do the arms of maybe a third of the room. Fraser looks at Nodge. He steadies his gaze on him. But Nodge’s arm does not move.

  All those against.

  Most of the rest of the two-thirds of the room raise their hands. Fraser shakes his head in despair.

  Abstentions.

  Nodge and one other put their hands up. Fraser stares at him, eyes blazing.

  * * *

  Later, upstairs in the bar, most of the members have gone home. On a table nearer to the bar, Saul is sitting drinking a vodka. Fraser is buying another round for himself and Nodge. Saul gets up to go to the loo. In a flash, Nodge sees Fraser drop something in Saul’s glass.

  He returns to the table with the drinks.

  What did you put in his drink?

  Nothing. What are you talking about?

  Don
’t bullshit me.

  It was the tiniest bit of a pork scratching. Won’t do him any harm.

  Jesus, Fraser.

  Come on. Revenge. It’s a big Jewish value. ‘An eye for an eye’. Saul would understand better than anyone. The hebes never let anyone get away with anything.

  Revenge is stupid. And don’t talk about hebes.

  Zionist neo-Nazis, then. And revenge isn’t stupid. Not at all. It makes you feel much better. Makes people respect you. I always take revenge when I get the chance.

  I don’t agree.

  That’s because you’re weak.

  You can’t judge me as a person because I have a different set of beliefs to you, Fraser.

  Not on revenge perhaps. But what about loyalty?

  Meaning?

  In the meeting. You were disloyal. You should have stood up for me.

  I can have personal disagreements with you.

  Haven’t you heard the news, Nodge? The personal is the political. Where you stand matters. And you don’t stand anywhere. I would have respected you more if you’d have voted against the motion. Yeh?

  Hmmm.

  Don’t hmmm me.

  I didn’t mean to be disloyal to you.

  If you didn’t want to be disloyal, you should have voted with me.

  But you just said you’ve got to stand on principles. Those were my principles. And I compromised them, so I wouldn’t look like I stood against you.

  You made a stand by abstaining!

  I’m a pragmatist. You always have to be right.

  Just because I know what I believe in.

  Do you never doubt anything, Fraze? Can’t you keep an open mind?

  Not so much that my brains fall out. You’re just wishy-washy. Like the rest of the centrist faction.

  I’m weak, I’m wishy-washy. All because I don’t agree with you. Have I abused you personally?

  You’ve called me a bully.

  That’s because you won’t let me have my own point of view.

  You can have your own point of view. But if we don’t stand against the Blairite tide, there aren’t going to be any individual points of view. Only what the party pages us to instruct us to believe. I for one am not prepared to be on message twenty-four hours a day because of those Millbank Nazis.

  They’re not Nazis, Fraser. That’s a ridiculous use of language. We’re in power. For the first time in, what? Thirteen years. All you do is bitch about it.

  What’s the use of power if we don’t have principles?

  They are still going at it when the landlord calls time. As he ushers them out Nodge wearily delivers his final salvo.

  It’s not as if it matters a damn what either of us believe anyway. We’re some nowhere branch outfit of a Labour party that only pretends to care what we think. And anyway, whatever you do think, people like you—

  People with convictions?

  . . . People like you are finished in the movement. That’s the simple reality. You’re gone, you’re defeated, and you ain’t coming back.

  We’ll see, says Fraser, darkly.

  I’m scared, says Nodge.

  You’re funny, says Fraser. Funny ha ha. But our time will come.

  * * *

  Outside, the thermometer has hardly climbed above freezing for five days. Inside the house, with Frankie out at work, Veronica has managed to hold the temperature at a steady 65 degrees. She holds a plastic cup under her as she relaxes her bladder, listens as the cup fills. She is three weeks late for her period and her anxiety is on the cusp of bleeding into panic.

  She feels the trickle of her urine ceasing its flow, and reaches for a paper tissue. Without bothering to pull up her skirt, she shuffles next door to the bathroom, holding the cup still. She puts it down, picks up the plastic indicator and dips it in the cup, then removes it.

  She waits. Minutes later, the two bars show blue.

  She feels nothing at first. Then like multiple shots fired rapidly into her heart – or out of it – she experiences joy, loneliness and terror, each competing for supremacy.

  The pull of a new life, the weight of the old. The pull of the old life, the weight of the new.

  The phone on the wall rings. She thinks of ignoring it, then, still dazed, picks it up.

  Frankie?

  Hello? Is that Veronica?

  It is a woman’s voice, one that she only vaguely recognizes.

  Who is this?

  It’s Roxy. You told me to give you a ring sometime. So that’s what I’m doing.

  Roxy?

  Roxanne. Roxanne Peacock.

  Veronica tries to remember who Roxanne Peacock is but draws a blank. Her mind is divided by two soft blue lines.

  From the Embankment Club. Millennium night.

  Finally it clicks.

  Roxy! Hello. Sorry. I’m a bit . . . I’m a little . . . I’m a bit distracted.

  Almost before the words are out of her mouth, Veronica bursts into helpless tears.

  Hey. Hey, says Roxy.

  Sorry. Sorry.

  This is like our first meeting in reverse, says Roxy. Remember? I was bawling my eyes out.

  Veronica forces out a laugh between the tears.

  What’s the matter then? Roxy asks.

  It’s nothing.

  Doesn’t sound like nothing.

  Veronica dams both laughter and tears. Now her voice when she speaks again is flat and tired.

  Oh, what the hell. I’m pregnant. Just found out. This minute, as it happens.

  She is astonished to hear herself say it. It seems to make it more real. Perhaps, she thinks, that is why she has spoken the words to a stranger.

  What the fuck?

  I feel so bad for telling you. I’m sorry. I don’t even know you.

  That might be why you’ve told me.

  I haven’t even told Frankie yet. I only just found out.

  Congratulations! You must be delighted.

  Perhaps.

  There is a pause.

  Are you going to . . . ?

  What do you mean?

  Are you going to keep it, babes?

  Am I going to keep what?

  You know.

  Veronica gathers herself, tries to take a mental step back.

  Roxanne. I appreciate you taking an interest. But it’s nothing to do with you, really.

  There is a heavy silence.

  I should go, says Veronica. I’ve said too much.

  She does not put down the receiver.

  How did it happen, though? says Roxy. I mean I know how it happened, but . . .

  Carelessness, I suppose.

  Now it all floods back to Veronica.

  Remember on Millennium night? We were drunk. Me and Frankie. You remember I knocked all my stuff onto the floor of the bathroom in the Embankment Club? Among all the junk on the floor, I didn’t pick up the three-pack I usually have with me. And when we got home there were none there. We sort of got carried away.

  There is a long pause.

  Roxy? Are you still there?

  When Roxy finally speaks her voice has changed, darkened a tone.

  It was me who knocked that stuff off, not you.

  Was it?

  So this is my fault. If I hadn’t done that, you wouldn’t be in this dilemma. So maybe I do have something to do with it. Maybe this is like . . . karma. You believe in karma, right?

  Yes. No. That’s crazy. You can’t think like that. It was just bad luck.

  I can think of something that will help clear things up in your mind. And make you feel a lot better at the same time.

  Sleep on it?

  Shopping. I finish my shift at one. Meet you then?

  Shopping?

  You can’t beat doing something trivial when something serious happens.

  * * *

  Three hours later, the two of them are at Brent Cross Shopping Centre. Roxy has ordered a large slice of frosted carrot cake which she is vigorously despatching, while Veronica sips liquorice tea with a smal
l drop of Manuka honey that she carries with her for just this purpose.

  So anyway, says Roxy, a guy is sitting at home when he hears a knock at the door. He opens the door and sees a snail on the porch. He picks up the snail and throws it as far as he can. Three years later there’s a knock on the door. He opens it and sees the same snail. The snail says: ‘What the fuck was that about?’

  Veronica tries to smile.

  I told you I could cheer you up.

  Are we going to spend all afternoon with you telling me stupid jokes?

  If they make you laugh.

  I don’t want to laugh at the moment.

  We’re going to go shopping. Like I said. Like you wanted. Some amazing stuff in Whistles, says Roxy. They have proper sales. Like, half off. Usually the best stuff is gone by now. But you can get lucky.

  None of it’s going to fit me in about three months.

  That depends on what you decide.

  Veronica stares, grim now, out of the café window.

  I don’t know what to do. It might be for the best to get rid of it for both of us. Frankie wants to get his agency started. He’s just lost his job. This is terrible timing.

  Right.

  It’s not like it’s an actual baby, is it? It’s a few cells.

  Yeh, well, I’ve had it done, says Roxy briskly, finishing off her cake and dropping crumbs on the wooden table. Twice. Didn’t feel so easy as I thought it was going to, tell you the truth. Fact is, I still feel shit about it. But, women’s choice and all that. For me it was different. I got pregnant by these proper fucktards. I didn’t think twice about it. Didn’t want to spread their genes in any direction what-soever. One hundred and ten per cent. See what I’m getting at?

  Roxy calls the waitress over and orders a glass of champagne.

  Go on, have a tipple. It’s on me. Treat.

  I’m pregnant. Remember?

  Life’s too short. Think of it as a celebration or a commiseration, or whatever you like

  When the champagne arrives, Roxy knocks back the glass in one go.

  How does an Essex girl turn the light on after sex?

  Please. No more.

  She opens the car door.

  What if I can’t get pregnant again? says Veronica, not smiling this time.

  Given how easily you got up the duff this time, that seems unlikely. Wait till you get to my age before you start freaking out about that stuff.

  Listen, Veronica. Thing is. Do you want it?

  I hate making decisions.