A Seat In The House By Patrick Henry (2/3)

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3).

Albert himself had a fine Triumph Tourer, fitting for his new position he took most seriously. He wore a bow-tie, waistcoat and watch-chain, spoke rhetorically and took copious pinches of snuff, a habit from printshop days where smoking was banned as a fire hazard. He seemed more like a personage from middle-class literature, Waugh and Wodehouse, rather than a member of this tough red gang taking over the Government. As well as the snuff, he now seemed addicted also to parliament, and his importance of being there.

One-way traffic systems had just begun in the town. Albert in his Triumph spun against the stream until stopped by a policeman, to whom he demanded. Do you realise who I am? At the tea-table he would open the delivered Evening News and say Let me scan your local rag, implying this organ's inferiority in the eyes of a Red ex-city newspaper come to this parochial old Tory town. Although the rural South had elected him, no Labour vote would gain this seat for the next fifty years.

Grandma set a fine table, including many pastries, her speciality. Albert would beam and say, I am going round clockwise, sampling goodies; then add, I am going round again; then concluding Albert, you have eaten too much. Buttons would open on the snuff-stained waistcoat. A lodger we had, a retired bookie and Conservative rustic figure got on well with Grandma, talking of horses, which had been a concern of her family, and of good old Edwardian days.

But his presence and outlook annoyed Albert, retiring early and remarking I will say goodnight to you, sir. In stiff politeness that held a gauntlet's challenging thrust. Albert became an under-minister, front-bench spokesman on agriculture. Attlee might have reasoned that this member represented rustic Cambridgeshire where grain and fruit fields abounded. But this figure from the streets of Hull, Batley, Cambridge City, of inky printshops and smoky meeting-halls was familiar only with a field if football was played on it.

He took me to watch 'Boro at home to Halifax in the FA. Cup, and enjoyed what he declared as the national sport for the working man.

Grandma's relative Aunt Annie visited from her Ryedale farm, bringing as often, a chicken and some eggs, a blessing in post-war rationing times. Raised from Hull horse-cab and motor-taxi backgrounds, she stayed severely Tory and blamed this Labour Government for all trouble, from the weather to her false teeth badly-fitting.

Albert being present, Grandma mentioned his elevation to the agriculture portfolio, adding mischievously Why do they think you know about farming? Aunt Annie seethed so intensely hearing this, she went almost speechless, luckily, then departed back to The Dales. This time goodnight to you, sir was repeated from a different perspective. My father home on RAF leave took Albert out drinking, but the choice of a lowlife pub caused some dispute. I am horrified you use such a place, the MP said. Dad protested I would not be seen dead here normally, but you wanted to come. Back home Grandma berated him, that Albert had wished to mingle with honest workers, not the dregs of drunken dole-drawers and scrap-dealers. Dad kept a straight, innocent face. He had his own way of dealing with the complex social clashes in the town and our family.

Continued ...next page

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