With a series of soft thudding sounds, David Miliband's MacBook keyboard began turning his thoughts into angry, flowing words for the
Guardian. The article, due out tomorrow, was being trailed as 'a frank look' at the post-May political landscape, the Coalition, and the economy. Right now, it was two paragraphs and a list of names, accompanied by a series of crude sexual swear words.
David sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. It just wasn't coming to him. The fire, dwindling since That Fucking Banana, appeared to have finally gone out.
The private sector wasn't so bad. The after dinner circuit had proved lucrative within a month of the election, and his diplomatic experience had given him a disproportionate amount of weight to throw around on the advisory board at Macro. Oxford Analytica was the most fun, and he'd been able to sink his teeth into some reports on Greece with some relish over the last few months. He'd felt proud of his work for the first time in eighteen months when presenting that one to the team. But the rest of his placements were juicy paychecks with several side orders of mind-numbing boredom - and etiquette insisted he clear his plate every time.
But whatever else it was, it was better than spending every moment of every slow news day being followed by a gaggle of reporters asking if he would challenge Brown again, and then, as time went on, if he would be standing after the (presumed) Labour defeat. David's eventual meltdown, caught on six different cameras and an iPhone, would have killed his chances of being a serious candidate in 2010 even if he hadn't been explicitly screaming down the lens about how he would rather eat his own legs. He'd made that decision very soon after the '08 conference, really - he just thought he might change his mind. It turned out he didn't.
And the board memberships were a bed of roses compared to that draughty, musty church hall in South Shields where he'd had to sit through problem after mind-numbing problem, brought to him by people with accents he could barely understand. In his time at the FCO, he had improved his French, grasped German, and taken a decent stab at Arabic. Geordie, however, would always be beyond him.
David had spent the aftermath of the election wondering if he'd done the right thing. He'd even felt a twinge of anxiety when it had looked - for five minutes - like he would have been drafted into Downing Street as part of a Lab-Lib-EveryoneElse Coalition deal when Clegg declared Brown a 'red line issue'. If only he'd still been in the Commons, et cetera, et cetera.
Of course, as he was now typing in his article, it had all been so much smoke. The Nick'n'Dave show had been a winner from the get-go, and now the UK was three months into its first coalition government since the War.
And Gordon Brown was no longer leader of the Labour Party. That, to David, had been the greater sea-change, even the greater surprise. Even when the dismal results were rolling in, the man's stoicism and 'concrete Brown' reputation had made it seem plausible that he might remain leader out of sheer stubbornness and inertia. But then, almost out of the blue, he resigned as party leader, and the short age of Harman began.
Would it the Personocracy continue? Harriet had thrown her hat into the ring shortly after Johnson had, doing so from the privileged position of incumbent leader (
not 'acting leader', she always insisted - no such position apparently existed within the Labour rulebook, and David had no interest in looking at that document ever again). But she was not the favourite - the Postman had that accolade.
Balls, the Continuity Brownite candidate, was doing well with the unions but had underperformed in PLP nominations. No surprises there, considering the legacy he had inherited. David had been astonished to hear there had been a movement within the Brown camp to go with 'the other Ed'-
David took a deep breath.
It still hurt. Relations with his brother had deteriorated rapidly after the '08 conference, and Ed's repeated attempts to 'run into' him in the Commons or elsewhere only made things worse. That Christmas had seen Mum force them to spend time in the same room, but David and family had headed for Louise's parents' house early on Boxing Day, and that had been it. The only contact he had with Ed now was to swap diaries about visiting Mum, so he would avoid running into him. An attempt by Justine to reach out through Louise had been an error on Ed's part, the tactical shit. It was, admittedly, delicious that the ambitious little toe-rag had been sunk by his own treachery against David: the Westminster consensus, backed up by leakers in high places, was that the Miliband name was too toxic when associated with the word 'leader', so it would be best if Ed stepped back from the whole process. To think he might've been Chancellor by now in David's dynamic, re-elected government...
"Anyway," murmured David softly as he began a new paragraph. McDonnell was making his usual noises but was looking awfully tired. Cruddas had disappointed everyone at
Grauniad HQ when he'd declined to stand, but the idea that he would have a chance had always been somewhat laughable. Hilariously, Cruddas had announced his intention to focus on preparing a motion to modify the Labour rulebook, specifically "provisions regarding the leadership".
"Good luck to him," muttered David, typing a note expressing similar sentiments.
Yes, Johnson was the best of a bad bunch, though with Balls doing well in the unions and many affiliates coming out for Harriet, Mrs Harperson might well pip him to the post. In many ways, he wrote with a burst of activity, the empty suits jostling for the crown were indicative of the wider state of the Labour Party now.
What
was the state of the Labour Party now? It certainly wasn't one he recognised, or was particularly comfortable with. He'd remarked to Louisa while cooking the broad beans two nights ago that he was probably going to allow his membership to lapse.
It wasn't just the scale of the defeat. Eighty-odd MPs gone in one night meant there were fewer faces he recognised, and the young bucks were walking around with confused looks on their faces. Chuka in particular gave off the air of a man aching to be informed he was not, in fact, the MP for Streatham, but the subject of an elaborate practical joke.
No, the smaller, lighter PLP wasn't the only change. James had gone long before the election, forcing a by-election in his seat in early 2009 before you could say 'screw you guys, I'm going home'. They still texted occasionally, but that dinner they had been planning for the last year had never quite materialised.
Other plotters had fared better. But, as Cameron had put it in the third debate, "He lost half his cabinet, and only a few came crawling back." Beginning to jot down some thoughts about the debates, David remembered how the remark had quickly turned from a zinger to a gaffe - Gordon had had one of those rare moments of sympathetic humility, and muttered "I think we should keep this about issues relating to governing the country." Cameron's "this
is about governing the country, and about how
you can't do it" had been misjudged, but while Dimbleby's intervention - telling him the debate was "not about party machinations" - attracted record numbers of complaints to the Beeb, it hit home. Brown finished higher in polls taken after the third debate than those after the first two.
But had the debates mattered? The government had been staggering this way and that since the September '08 conference and the end of the week-long 'no time for a novice' bounce. By Christmas, normal service had resumed. When the expenses scandal broke, there were a few whispers of a leadership challenge - but, utterly predictably, they had come to nothing at all. The botch of the Speaker election, and The Resistable Rise of Sir George Young, had been the closest Gordon had come to another leadership crisis, but Hoon's stupid attempts to force him to resign had failed when the PLP, the media and anyone with basic literacy told him It's Not Fucking Possible.
The Brown government had been slicing itself into pieces just fine on its own without Nick Fucking Clegg looking down the camera lens and saying it was time for a fresh start. Toynbee had tried to shoot him down by saying "he's not the British Obama, but the David Miliband of 2010". David hadn't even been offended, he was past caring by that point. But Toynbee could still come in for a pasting in his article...
"Daddy..."
David turned sharply. His son was staring at him.
"What is it, Isaac?"
"Will you come and push me on the swing?"
"Daddy is just in the middle of something now," said David, turning back to the keyboard, "can Mummy not play with you?"
"She's with Jacob," said the four-year-old, not masking his distaste for that fact. David stopped typing midway through a sentence that was trying to link Alan Johnson's lack of charisma and lack of backbone through a weak joke about some kind of ugly invertebrate. He turned to his son.
"Oh. Well, I am doing this, so..."
"Is it important?"
David looked into his son's pleading eyes. He looked at the screen, then back at Isaac. He could hear the birds singing outside. The sun was streaming in through the window. A few streets away, an ice cream van began chiming.
"No," he said simply, holding out his hand.
Upstairs, Louise gazed at her two-year old with affection as Jacob finally settled for his nap. From the garden, she heard laughter.