Particularly Whips like Battersby.
Battersby was an oversized man with a figure like a deflating balloon and a face that brought to mind a cauliflower. A couple of outer leaves stuck out from the top of the cauliflower in passing imitation of hair. The Battersby mind could never be described as broad but, in the exercise of his duties, it was extremely singular. He was what was known as the Whip of Last Recourse. It was his function to deal with those Members who had reached that point of utter confusion in which they started rambling about 'conscience' and 'principle' and refused the invitation to enter the milking shed. At that stage Battersby would reach into his badly cut and over-large jacket and pull out a little black book. The production of this well-thumbed volume was a gesture that inspired remarkable piety, for in it were recorded all the known telephone contacts for that particular Member. Starting with The Wife, of course. Then The Parliamentary Secretary. Also The Constituency Agent. In the case of an alcoholic, the book held the number of The Doctor or The AA Group, and with a gambler, perhaps even The Accountant or The Bookmaker.
But the most potent entries in that little black book seemed to be those numbers that a Member struggled to keep most private – the 'OI' numbers, as they were referred to in Battersby's shorthand. What those in the Whips' Office called 'the numbers of the night'. The places where the Member was mostly likely to be found in the hours after the sun had set. The numbers of The Mistress or The Lover.
In Battersby's book and in his meticulous script, these names were divided into two categories and marked as either 'OI-1' or 'OI-2'. These categories differentiated between 'Occasional Indiscretion' and 'Ongoing Involvement'. Of course, the collection of these numbers was more of a hobby than a necessity since all his Members had waistband pagers by which they could be contacted, but Battersby liked to keep 'that little personal touch', as he explained it.
The errant Members themselves were marked with an 'FU' designation. 'FU-1' indicated 'Family Unaware', thereby rendering the Member open to coercion. These Members he liked, even had affection for, so far as his politics allowed. But he drew the line at the 'FU-2s'. From Battersby's point of view, those marked with the awesome 'FU-2' branding were outcasts, worthy only of eternal exile or – still better – execution as soon as an appropriate scaffold could be nailed together, for it indicated the small number of Members who had not only sniffed at the skirts of perversion but who had grabbed at them and lifted them high. These were the most dangerous of parliamentary colleagues, the Members who were in the habit of switching off their pagers. Who were 'Frequently Untraceable'. And therefore 'Fundamentally Unreliable'. And many other things besides.
All were recorded, noted down in Battersby's lexicon of lusts. His diagnostic skills were something of a legend; a Member need only to have tarried for a few hours beneath a duvet he hadn't bought himself and Battersby would have discovered not only the number of the bedside telephone but even the tog-value of the duvet. Production of the dog-eared manual at the regular surgery he held in the Whips' inner sanctum had a similar effect to a cattle herder producing a revolver – cures amongst those beasts afflicted by the disease of conscience proved almost miraculous.
Battersby was a bully. Goodfellowe found him breathing down his collar as he waited his turn in the milking shed.
'Still shagging that waitress, Goodfellowe?' Battersby enquired, addressing the back of Goodfellowe's neck. It was meant without undue maliciousness, almost as humour, as one might have asked after a result at tennis, but Goodfellowe had already played the victim once that evening and was in no mood for a rematch.
'Did you have garlic for dinner, Alfred?' Goodfellowe responded, not bothering to turn round. He sniffed. 'Yes, definitely garlic. And Guinness.'
'Something's taking your eye off the plot,' the Whip growled, responding in kind, his tongue working around his teeth as though in search of a lost sweet. 'Must be the waitress. 'Bout time you came round, old chum, and remembered the first duty of every backbencher.'
'Which is?'
'To be loyal to his Prime Minister, of course.'
'And his second duty?'
The question seemed to startle Battersby. 'Hell, there's a second?'
Goodfellowe at last turned to face his pursuer. 'Ever wondered why they keep you in the Whips' Office, Alfie? Why they never give you a proper job or allow you out amongst real people?'
'It's because I'm loyal. An inspiration to others.'
'It's because if you fell ill in the outside world they wouldn't know whether to take you to a hospital or the Natural History Museum.'
'Don't push it, sunshine.'
'And what are you going to do? No, don't tell me, let me guess. You'll confiscate my bicycle pump? Or cover my saddle with superglue?'
Battersby remained silent for a moment. Goodfellowe was a notoriously awkward sod, a man who had a mind of his own and absolutely nothing of relevance to the Whips. No position, no ambition, nothing to lose. So no weak points, no leverage. An archetypal FU-2. And Battersby was beginning to feel uncertain of his ground. Had they really put garlic in the steak-and-kidney?
'Anyway, something you ought to know.'
'What's that?'
'The waitress,' Goodfellowe continued. 'She owns the restaurant.'
– =OO=OOO=OO-= With that, Goodfellowe was gone, democratic duty done and on his way home, leaving behind him the over-ripe odour of the milking shed and savouring the fresh air – although in London everything was relative, particularly the concept of fresh air. Whitehall was still crowded with traffic grinding its way towards Trafalgar Square and even the rain hadn't managed to wash the taste of burnt diesel from the night. He spat, then spat again when he found a glistening maroon Ministerial Rover parked ostentatiously across the new green cycle lane, blocking his route. The vehicle's driver was leaning against the wall of the nearby Cabinet Office, smoking a cheap Dutch cheroot. Goodfellowe felt his fuse beginning to burn. It was barely a month since they had painted this cycle lane, and then only after years of lobbying. It represented a small stream of green hope washing through Whitehall. Now Ministers were using it as a car park.
Yet like all London cyclists who lived in hope of survival, Goodfellowe was prepared. Whistle to his lips, as was his custom when fighting heavy traffic, he blew to attract the driver's attention. The driver turned, stared impassively from the shadows of his wall, dark eyes unblinking, his face lit like a Halloween mask, then returned to his cheroot.
Goodfellowe blew again, impatiently, a shriller blast, but Ministerial drivers were a law unto themselves – why, they even had little silver badges issued by the Metropolitan Police to prove it. This bastard wasn't for moving. And the rain was back.
Exasperated, Goodfellowe engaged a lower gear and began to manoeuvre his small collapsible bicycle out into the roadway. But the gears were stiff, unoiled, reluctant, and the distraction caused him to be careless. He bent to his task, head down, and twitched at the handlebars, but no sooner had he moved out from the kerb than his world was all but turned on its end as he found himself hurled back towards the gutter by the bow wave of an advancing double-decker. The bus screamed past, almost brushing his shoulder. A collapsible bike pitted against fume-belching spray-spewing red-metal monster. No contest. Goodfellowe ended up drenched.
The front wheel wobbled in despair. The Ministerial driver smirked.
Suddenly Goodfellowe realized he knew the fellow. From years ago, but reasonably well. The smirk belonged to a driver from the Whitehall motor pool who on frequent occasions had driven Goodfellowe during those heady days of fame and good fortune when he'd been a Minister at the Home Office. At that time their relationship had been all smiles and shared Polo mints, larded with gossip about the fumblers and fallers in the great parliamentary steeplechase, but now the driver stared at him, oblivious and unrecognizing.