Get back in the game

Christine’s eyes traced the flowery swirls on the ornamental ceiling. There was a majestic symmetry in the design Baroness Thatcher had approved for 10 Downing Street's White Drawing Room. The gleaming chandelier resembled a pretty star, around which symbols from the four nations orbited; an English rose, Irish shamrock, Scottish thistle and Welsh daffodil. What would hold those four countries together now?

“Ouch!” Christine exclaimed, sitting bolt up on the firm beige sofa. She winced as a female paramedic applied cream to her burnt right hand. “What is that?”

“Antibiotic ointment,” said the woman, gently rubbing the raw hand. “I would prefer you were treated in hospital.”

“I’ve told you, I'm not leaving this house.” The woman exhaled in frustration. “It's my hand, I can do as I wish. It's a free country.” Christine laughed. “Did you hear that? A free country. It really is a free country!”

“Yes, it is, so can I skip the pleasantries and tell you what I think?”

“Please do.”

The woman stopped what she was doing and stared at Christine. “Your behaviour outside was reckless. You've scared a lot of people. You wanted headlines? Well you got them.”

“Oh, people are scared are they?”

“Yes.”

“And so they should be. If I've given people a rude awakening, a wake up call to a new, terrifying era, then I've done my job.”

“If you'd done your job, this would never have happened.”

And there it was, the first accusation of blame. Christine knew this would fall on her, even though it was a debacle handed to her on a plate, or an election ticket.

“Why isn't the pain worse?” asked Christine, changing the subject.

The woman continued covering the hand in cream. “You’ve had double-strength painkillers. It smells like you've had liquid sedation too. If you’d held on much longer than ten to fifteen seconds, this would have been a lot worse. You’re lucky to have got away with second degree burns.”

“Second degree? Father will be disappointed.”

“What do you mean?” asked the paramedic, stopping to look at Christine again.

“Don’t you know? I’m supposed to get firsts for everything.” Christine laughed hysterically.

“Yep, liquid sedation.”

“Had a drink have we?” asked the male paramedic unraveling a roll of bandage behind his colleague.

“Don’t be so condescending,” replied Christine. “I may have had a tipple, and that is my right. I’ve had a frightfully bad day.”

“You’re not the only one,” said the woman. The man handed his colleague the bandage and she began loosely wrapping Christine’s scorched hand. “This dressing is temporary. You need to follow-up with your GP tomorrow.” Christine bit her lip, closed her eyes and began crying. “Do you need more painkillers?”

Christine shook her head lightly in reply. And then she carried on shaking. In-fact, she couldn’t stop the motion and swung her head back and forth with increasing velocity. The violent movement was the first action that prevented the intrusion of invading thoughts, with the darkness accompanied by a strange distortion of sound and mild pain in her head.

“What are you doing?” asked the woman paramedic. “What’s she doing? Are you okay? Stop it. Please, stop it. Stop it!” Two hands gripped Christine’s face and held it stationary. “Get a grip, woman.” Christine opened her eyes and saw both paramedics peering at her from a hair’s breadth away. Enraged that her temporary serenity had been halted, Christine unleashed a bloodcurdling scream. The paramedics quickly withdrew, opening up Christine’s view of the room behind them, where a tall man stood in-between the ajar bi-folding white double doors. Recognising her Father, Christine instantly stopped.

Her Father owned the room without effort. He had no need for arm movements or a raised voice, his very presence demanded respect, with a strong clean-shaven jaw line, glowing tanned complexion, shiny bald head and piercing blue eyes.

“Hello,” said the male paramedic.

“Good afternoon,” said her Father in his strong, authoritative tone. He entered the room, his footsteps echoing on the wooden floor until he stepped onto the huge rug. Christine crooked her neck and stared down at the items on the wooden coffee table. Her bracelets and rings had been removed because of the swelling and the bowl of cold water that her hand had bathed in was tinged red.

“How is she?” asker her Father.

“She’ll be okay. She has second degree burns,” said the female paramedic, answering without question. With Police restricting access to the room, possibly out as well as in, the paramedics knew he was authorised to be there.

“Does she still have use of her hand?”

“She should rest it-”

“Does she still have use of her hand?”

“Yes. It’s very sore, but she can use it.”

“That’s good. It is difficult to cope in daily life without the use of your primary hand.” Out of her peripheral vision, Christine saw her Father stop stationary behind the sofa opposite. His mouth opened and closed goldfish-style and saliva smacked as he moistened his mouth, sending a shudder through her, like nails on a chalkboard. “Leave us.”

Christine glanced up and the body language of the paramedics implied they didn’t know how to respond. They looked at her and she nodded slightly, granting them permission to gather their bags and go. “Thank you for your help,” her Father said as they departed. Left alone with him, Christine lowered her head again. He edged around the sofa and then sat down on it, with just the coffee table between them. “Sit up.” Christine did as she was told, lowering her legs onto the floor and straighting her back. “Look at me.” She gradually rose her head until her eyes met his. He maintained prolonged eye contact during an uneasy silence, as usual. Christine felt a little woozy, probably from the alcohol and tablets, but she steeled herself to not stray or blink. “In your own words, please describe the background behind today’s events. I am lacking context.”

“I tried to find a solution, I did. I haven’t slept for days. I had people running computations… we’ve brainstormed endlessly… there was no solution.”

“I presume you are referring to the financial plight that Vincent Knight has outlined. When did the matter come to light?”

“I identified the risk on my first week in office. It was glaringly obvious. I’ve worked diligently ever since, all to no avail. The damage was done, by the law and my predecessor’s refusal to take decisive action.”

“Blaming others is a sign of weakness. Shoulder the responsibility yourself. This happened on your watch. You will be forever remembered as the Chancellor who paraded a burning budget box.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want apologies. Do you think that is what I came here for?”

“No.”

“No.” He smacked his lips again, making her skin crawl. “You have been distant recently. I thought you were consumed with work, that you were dedicating yourself to your job, to your country. Therefore, I said nothing and let it go. Then, we come to the big day, the day you have worked your entire life for. We ate breakfast this morning and cherished the moment together. We basked in the glory. Then, you let your Mother and I wait, in ignorance. Hour after hour passed, and nothing. No emergence from 11 Downing Street. No explanation. You didn’t answer my calls. What was I supposed to do? What was I supposed to think? Soon after 3pm, you finally appear, from 10 Downing Street. I knew something was wrong, that is not the etiquette, and you know the importance of etiquette, of tradition. Then, of all things, you smile. That is not what we discussed. Neither was setting the budget box on fire. That was a touch melodramatic, don’t you think?”

“I didn’t-” She stopped as her Father raised his hand and pointed at her, instructing her to tell the truth. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and said, “It was an impulse. I had been alone in the Cabinet Room for an hour, maybe longer. My mind was exhausted. The meeting had been utterly chaotic. Everyone got drunk.”

“So too did you, but we’ll come back to that.”

“There was fighting. Brooke Dougherty, the Health Secretary, she at-”

“I know who Brooke Dougherty is.”

Christine paused, before continuing, “She attacked me. I had to defend myself, no one came to my aid.”

“What have I taught you? You do not rely on the grace of others, for they will let you down.” Her father slowed to put increased emphasis on the final three words, a backhanded way to express his feelings. “Remind me of the key VETTED principles.”

Christine thought back to the flash cards she'd seen a million times.

“Virtue, excellence, tact, tenacity, empathy and dignity.”

“Dignity, yes. Do you feel that you have behaved in a dignified fashion today? How about when you refused to part with the box and let the Police manhandle you to the floor? Where was your dignity then?”

“It escaped me.”

“Yes, it most certainly did. When you first discovered the budgetary black-hole, you decided not to pay me the courtesy of forewarning?”

“I was sworn to secrecy.”

“You take orders from the Prime Minister over me?” Christine remained silent, unsure what to say. “You did not give me one clue, not an inkling, in all those months. You let this news ambush me. I could have prepared. I could have planned. Now, I have to react. And you know how I dislike reacting.”

“I’ve been trying to find-”

“You tried. Your dignity isn’t the only value to have escaped you, is it? What of excellence? You had a unique opportunity to prove your preeminence and put your name in the history books. Of course, you have achieved that feat anyway, albeit with a somewhat less positive entry.” Her Father tutted and shook his head in dissatisfaction. “So here we are, sat in the White Drawing Room, as the country falls apart outside of these four walls. Tell me, what is your next move?”

“What do you think I should do, Father?”

“Oh, you'd like my counsel again would you? Things didn't go so well under your own stewardship, did they?”

“No.”

“You have endangered everything you have worked for, in an instant of rash and ill-advised decision-making, following some fanciful notion that you know what is best. I know what is best.”

Christine felt great sadness overcome her. She fought to control her feelings, knowing her Father would regard any show of emotion as a sign of weakness, but she could not stop the tears from building in her eyes and rolling down her face. She broke eye contact and looked back down at the coffee table. Amongst the jewelery she’d removed was her Wedding Ring, which she had worn on her right hand since the divorce. How she missed Gregory; his caring nature, his loving touch, his warm words, his home-cooked meals, his thoughtful gestures. How had she neglected him so? And for this. Why didn’t she fight to keep him? The sacrifice was not worth it, not by any stretch of the imagination. Memories that had been locked away and feelings she had repressed came rising to the surface. Her left hand covered her mouth and she sobbed her heart out.

Unexpectedly, her Father stood, paced around the table and sat down next to her. After softly examining her bandaged hand, he smiled and cupped her face. What was he doing, surely not comforting her? He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. The touch of his warm skin and show of love brought further tears to her eyes. “Thank you, Father.”

“I always have your interests at heart.” Christine tried to pull back to smile sweetly at her Father, but his hands tightened their grip and drew her face closer, until his lips touched her ear. “Now get up, get over to Parliament, and get back in the game,” he commanded with an ominous whisper.