Bunter and Kaminsky located Tempus-Fugitson seated in a vast oak panelled office in Tufton Street with his hands behind his head, humming Land of Hope and Glory to himself with a far away smile. A life-sized portrait of Margaret Thatcher dressed as Boadicea glowered at them from one wall. Everything in the room seemed to be tinted with shades of grey, including Tempus-Fugitson, who stirred as they entered. When he stood up to greet them he was tall and sharp limbed blessed with an improbable number of angles.
‘Hullo Bunter, old man. Do take a seat.’ He glared at Kaminsky. ‘You too, uhm..?’
‘Gregory.’
‘Of course. Mr Gregory. Please be seated.’
Kaminsky rolled his eyes and sat down in a low leather couch.
‘You can’t just summon me, you know, old boy,’ complained Bunter, ‘not now I’m Prime Minister and everything.’
‘I’m the Chairman of the ERG,’ said Tempus-Fugitson, as if that should be answer enough for anyone.
Bunter tried out two chairs before finding one that was comfortable, prodding the grey upholstery with distaste. ‘What exactly is the ERG?’
Tempus-Fugitson looked horrified. ‘Has nobody explained it to you?’
‘I know you helped Kaminsky here with our Leave campaign.’
Tempus-Fugitson looked at Kaminsky. ‘I thought you were Mr Gregory?’
‘Gregory Kaminsky. I was blessed with two names. It can be confusing.’
‘Aren’t you Russian?’
‘I’m a Yorkshireman,’ replied Kaminsky.
Tempus-Fugitson nodded. ‘I see. We’ve spoken on the telephone I believe?’
‘Many times. Can we get on with this before Hell freezes over?’
‘You were explaining about the ERG?’ said Bunter.
‘The European Research Group,’ replied Tempus-Fugitson.
‘And what do you research?’
‘Never mind that now. Everyone who’s anyone is a member. You might even be a member yourself, but the membership records are a closely guarded secret, so I can’t say.’
Bunter turned to Kaminsky. ‘Am I a member of the ERG?’
‘I doubt it,’ said Kaminsky. ‘There’s a subscription to pay.’
‘Tax deductible,’ added Tempus-Fugitson with warmth. ‘Anyway, that aside, the ERG is delighted to support you as our new Prime-Minister. Now we want to help you with your task of getting Brexit over the line.’
‘Get Brexit Done,’ said Bunter, repeating the mantra that had got him into office. He gave Tempus-Fugitson a tentative thumbs up.
‘Of course. And as Secretary for the Nineteenth Century, I feel I will amply contribute to the strategy of government. But the ERG has some concerns about sustainability.’
‘I’m working flat out on a green agenda,’ said Bunter at once.
‘No, no. Not that kind of sustainability. The ERG is more concerned with the sustainable nature of your government. With your modest majority. And with the Surrender Bill that’s due to be debated in Parliament.’
Bunter pushed back his jacket and thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I don’t think we need to worry too much about the Surrender Bill,’ he said.
‘Why on earth not?’ said Tempus-Fugitson.
‘Well—because I have a plan,’ said Bunter, bursting with pride.
‘What kind of plan?’ interjected Kaminsky with suspicion. ‘Have you thought it through?’
‘Do tell,’ said Tempus-Fugitson, pursing his lips.
‘Well, erm… it seems to me that if we’re all so worried about what Parliament will do, then why don’t I just shut it down? Stop it debating the Surrender Bill?’ said Bunter.
Tempus-Fugitson clasped his hands together in a monochrome ecstasy. ‘Would you, Prime Minister? Can you even do that?’
‘Aren’t I the Prime-Minister? I can do anything I like, can’t I?’ he addressed his question to Kaminsky, who was lost in thought, holding the room in suspense while he considered the question. Finally he raised a finger in the air to command attention to his final judgement.
‘Constitutionally,’ he said ‘you couldn’t do it yourself. You’d have to advise the Queen to do it.’
‘I mean what’s the point of it?’ Bunter grumbled on, ‘The big decisions are made by the big people—people like me. And I will lead a government that will always get the big decisions right, you see if I don’t’
‘If you can get the Queen to prorogue Parliament, then this bill will never see the light of day,’ said Kaminsky.
‘Then that’s what I’ll do,’ said Bunter emphatically.
‘Callooh! Callay,’ said Tempus-Fugitson, fluttering his bony hands in delight. ‘Tea anyone?’
❖
In the plush Tufton Street lobby Bunter read the names on the board. It reminded him of the First XI leader board at Greyfriars, in which he had never featured. Of course, he could have if he’d wanted to. He had always been athletic.
‘Thatcher Institute of Trade Strategy. TITS,’ mused Bunter. ‘Who thought of that. Was it Del Boy Trotter?’ he ventured with a guffaw.
‘They’re very supportive of you,’ said Kaminsky in a prickly tone.
‘Our Home – Britain,’ continued Bunter. ‘Where’ve I heard something similar to that?’
‘You’re a member of that one yourself, Billy.’ said Kaminsky.
‘Good Grief, am I really? What about the IEF— Institute of Economic Folly?’
‘They’re very influential. They were the architects of your economic policy.’
‘Why have I never heard of them?’
‘You never asked about them before.’
‘Well I think I should jolly well know who they are, if they’re that important.’
Kaminsky seemed to snigger. ‘This is the centre of government. You’re just a figurehead really. I thought you understood that?’
‘But aren’t I the Prime Minister?’
‘Of course, Billy. Shall we go?’ said Kaminsky, rubbing a hand over the stubble of his shaved pate.
The big Georgian doors swung open and a brick built man in a tightly fitting suit shouldered his way inside. ‘Zdravstvooitye!’ he greeted Kaminsky as he swept past with a curt gesture.
‘Privet!’ returned Kaminsky, looking uncomfortable.
‘What did he just say, old boy?’
‘I think he just sneezed.’
‘Sounded like Russian.’
‘Why would he speak to me in Russian?’
‘Hmm…’ said Bunter, looking uncertain, like somebody holding four aces who just lost a hand of poker to a royal flush. ‘What’s that one? Is that one of ours too?’ said Bunter, pointing up at the board. ‘Russia Britain Friendship Group.’
‘You better ask your fiancé about that one. Come on,’ and Kaminsky put a hand on Bunter’s back and led him firmly to the doors.
‘But what do all these people do, old man?’ protested Bunter as he was steered into the street.
‘Somebody has to run the country,’ said Kaminsky.
