Part Seventy-Six
Grayling stepped into another world, into the imposing foyer of Cleland House. It was the antiseptic calm and utter quiet of it that hit him. An automatic pilot still running half expected the chorus of voices that he was used to and the still frozen blasts of air and cold feel of metal barred gates. Here, the efficient heating system of the old building wrapped him up in a womb-like warmth, leaving the cold outside. A row of rich red mahogany benches and high backs ran along the wall and in the corner the foliage of a large potted plant added a civilised touch. Such indeed was the symbolic core of the headquarters and the engine room of the prison service. Grayling's attention was fixed upon the man at the wide waist height reception desk, which ran the length of an angle of the room. The man had the untroubled air of an office where the greatest danger to life and limb was if the cleaners hadn't done their job properly. With a sudden shock, Grayling realised that the receptionist wasn't Ken. "You go to the fourth floor, turn right along the corridor, go through two sets of double doors and your office is the first one you come to. The box with all your personal effects is on your desk." "Thanks." It seemed that he was symbolically re-enacting his spiralling career climb to the dizzy heights that he had now ascended to when he had got to the fourth floor. He trod sedately along the grey carpets along the tastefully off white painted corridors while neon strip lights illuminated his journey. Not a soul stirred and this was a million miles away from the prison officers passing along the drearily painted bare brick narrow twisting tunnels that he was used to. He found his large office in a style that made his old office seem like a shabby imitation of it. He had done his best to make the creature comforts of his old position to personalise the place. Here, he was starting off with a blank sheet against the sort of furniture that symbolised what the workshops had fitted out a Victorian era of empire builders with. This wasn't elitism in its modern, aggressively plastic form but the continuum of rule despite the necessary grafting on of modern methods. As such a modern concession, he took in the flat wide screen computer at the corner of his desk and studied it approvingly.
Right in the middle of everything was the crate of his personal belongings which he had last seen at Larkhall, his link to his past and his own identity. His first job was to make himself at home. He sorted his stuff out into his desk drawers and, in pride of place, he put the card that the Julies had made. This was the symbol of his own continuity of his own past and a warning 'lest he forget.' He had made his promises and was determined to make good on it for the long term. He knew, well enough, that he would be the subject of much secret evaluation, how he 'fitted in' to the new culture and resolved that he would need to get the measure of the new relationships, not least his new boss, Alison Warner.
As he sat back in his comfortable chair, he noticed an empty secretary's desk and that he had an utterly cuckooned feeling. This place spoke of an utterly relaxed mode of operations in this atmosphere of mild spring. His old office was either hot and sweltering in summer or cold and draughty in winter. The utter silence of it was deafening compared to the background shouts of the women on the wings, the metallic clang of metal doors, the thud of cell doors closed. It had all merged into a background chorus while life went on all around him. Right now, he felt for a moment that he had bunked off school and had absconded in a building that he didn't belong to and someone would find him out. Yet his increased salary would be paid into the bank account from the Prison Service Pay Section indicating this new location. "Mr. Grayling, sir," Called out the cheerful fresh voiced woman who interrupted his musings. "I'm your secretary. I've kept out of your way, and I've been working elsewhere till you've settled yourself in. I thought you wouldn't want anyone poking their nose in till you were done." "Since you know my name already, perhaps I ought to know yours." "Tricia. Tricia Edwards. I was wondering if you wanted a cup of tea. I can brew up if you want." "Milk with no sugar. And thanks," Grayling smiled briefly.
Tricia's glance had taken in the layout of his desk straight away. There was no framed happy snapshot of wife and/or children that was common for this type of boss. The look of it was very neat, everything laid out very precisely in its geometrical and fastidious precision. It was bare, uncluttered and innexpressive except the oddly crudely coloured card in the middle of his desk. It was inscribed "To our Favourite Gov" and was clearly a leaving card from his last job. It was odd enough for a card to be on public display. Such cards were normally kept in the depths of some bureau to be studied in private moments of contemplation. They were not to be put on public display and were certainly not these strangely styled offerings. It spoke of the one inconsistency and was enigmatic.
Otherwise, he was neater, more fastidious than other men of his age, no wedding ring but pleasant and courteous enough. "You look as if you're at your first day at school, if I might say so." It was a bold move that might have spelt disaster for her if she had spoken that way to her average sort of boss. If there were anything in it, that type of inexpressive man would have translated it into furious anger at her. There had been something a little lost looking in Grayling's body language that prompted her to be more forward than she normally was on first acquaintance. "I feel like a new boy on my first day, Trisha." Grayling's face and whole body movement relaxed into a broad grin as he frankly admitted his unease. This woman was neatly dressed and immaculately groomed in the approved look that the head office required, even a typist required. She had that particular look but her manner reminded him of, dare he say it, the two Julies? He found that as they started to chat away to each other, he became more animated in his manner and opened up.
"It's nice having a real gent as a boss. My last one expected me to rush around in my lunch break to buy all his family's birthday cards so that he could pretend to his wife how thoughtful he was." "That won't be much of a problem as I haven't got much family. I could do with you watering the plants from time to time." "Oh that's all right. I like that sort of thing." Unconsciously, he was making his first presence felt quietly and unassumingly, learning his way around gradually, the utter opposite from the way he zoomed into Larkhall on his bike and carrying a sackful of grandiose plans. Just then, the phone rang.
"Grayling," He spoke automatically.
"Is that Performance Development?" "You're through to the Governing Governor at……." "Sorry, I've dialled the wrong number." The toneless voice at the other end paralleled Grayling's conversation but did not meet it, having realised his mistake.
"Well, it comes of being new around here. I'll learn." Trisha grinned at Grayling's wry smile and shrug of his shoulders as he nonchalantly passed off his mistake. "I suppose I need to get password access to my computer and browse round what is there. Who normally sorts out that sort of thing?" "I'll phone …." The second jangled phone ring cut Trisha short and this time, it was Alison Warner's voice.
"Grayling." "Ah Neil. I trust you have settled in comfortably." Her first words triggered Grayling's sense of caution. He would have to manage the first delicate power play to decide the balance of relations. He had run two prisons and had enjoyed years of relative autonomy from Area, buttressed by the fact of the miles of physical space between Larkhall and Cleland House. Now he was to become that more accessible. He had to learn to box clever, especially in this temporary period when he was new to the job. "Couldn't be better, Mrs. Warner," Grayling responded cheerily. "All I have to do is to get my access set up to my computer." "You can leave that till later as I thought it would be a good idea to have an introductory chat over coffee. It's by way of getting to know each other better." Grayling wasn't fooled by the over elaborate casual tone in her voice. In the past, he had pulled this sort of stroke on staff working for him.
Mrs. Warner put her cup of espresso coffee down after the preliminaries which defined more exactly where he fitted in and the day to day processes of his work and the relevant people he would need to be aware of. "Well, I hope I've made it clearer exactly what your duties are and where you fit into the scheme of things, Neil. I would be interested in your views of how you see yourself in your new role, bearing in mind the delicacy of balancing between the dictates of the Home Office on the one hand and your responsibility for a group of prisons on the other." Neil sipped slowly from the cup of coffee in order to finalise his thoughts.
"My approach is to learn the job from the bottom up, use what I have learned as Governing Governor and integrate it in the wider picture in which we operate. I would never want to gloss over the reality of those who do the day to day jobs in the prisons. After that, I constantly re-evaluate my perspective and that I pay particular attention to the lines of communication, that whoever I deal with understands where I am coming from and vice versa." "Your views are surprisingly unadventurous and pedestrian for your proven reputation. I quote from a speech at a conference where you delivered a paper on the part privatisation model and I quote. 'My vision of the future of the prison service as one of part privatisation. It marries up what is best preserved of the traditions of the public service, its maintenance of standards, its conscientious spirit, with the thrusting dynamic entrepreneurial , go getting spirit of private initiative which will dare conceive of new ideas." Grayling was taken aback by the smug, triumphant tone in Alison Warner's voice which tried to trap him in the prison of his past. Did he really come out with that load of bollocks and do it, speaking into a microphone and standing before a crowded conference hall?
"My direct experience of Lynfords Security showed that the reality was less satisfying than the promise. It is a firm you may remember," Grayling started, speaking slowly, watching Mrs. Warner wince at the name that was best forgotten. "The trouble with many marriages these days is that they end up in too many broken homes for children to grow up in, which I did." She reacted sharply to this heresy in slightly hostile tones. It felt right to start drawing the line with him and get things clear right from the start. However, her big weakness was in working from Grayling's reputation and not from the reality of him.
"It's ironical that your speech went down well here and in other quarters. The sort of sentiments which you seem to disown and turn your back on. You ought to sound out the views of your colleagues before you make free with your present sentiments and the rather blunt way you express them. You don't want to get a reputation as a maverick, as a bad team player if you know what's good for you." "Times change people, me included. I have learned to become careful in being over eager in building castles upon sand foundations. My approach is entirely pragmatic, Mrs. Warner. I have no fixed political ideology. I am simply concerned to find out what works and what doesn't. I'm quite sure that you value success as much as I do." Grayling's silky tones and hint of a smile disarmed Mrs. Warner's frosty and vaguely threatening manner. It attracted her with the one sure argument, that most addictive temptation of the desire for success. However, she could not let matters go without one last parting shot.
"It was you that sold area on the idea of Karen Betts as the new Governing Governor of Larkhall. It has had a chequered past, hasn't it. Of course you know that if its reputation doesn't change, eyes will turn to you as the person who recommended her for the job, won't they?" "Time will tell either way, Mrs. Warner," Came Grayling's unconcerned reply before he made his unhurried exit.
Neil was finally enabled to unlock the secrets of the computer which were stored within it. He navigated his way round the structure of the Word directories and the chain of sub sub directories and the E mail database and felt easier in his mind. "Mr. Grayling, you have a visitor," Trisha's voice disturbed his thoughts. "Sir Ian Rochester." "Show him in." Inwardly, Grayling was startled. It was the first time he had spoken up close to the man for a long time. Their normal occasions for communications was the long distance phone call. Both of their careers needed far reaching contacts that would be useful. He remembered with a twinge of bad conscience the time when his desires for Jim Fenner made him prepared to sacrifice Karen to the demands of expediency. He didn't like to think back to that part of his life. Otherwise, he and Laurence James were two brooding background physical presences at the back of the visitor's gallery at the time of the Atkins trial. He gestured him to comfortable seats and Sir Ian failed to spot the card on his office desk.
"Sir Ian, it's a long time since we have properly talked. What brings you here?" Sir Ian smiled affably. He wasn't sure how to play his cards in this delicate manoeuvre. It wasn't every day that his skills of persuasion were called upon to recruit members for an amateur orchestra. Nevertheless he supposed that his normal gambits would be enough to secure compliance so long as the man was as good a singer as the grapevine told him that he was. "I thought I'd look you up while I'm on my rounds. I was expecting to have to go through the bolts and bars at Larkhall till I was told you'd got your promotion. It must be quite a change after years at the coal face as it were." "Early days, Ian. I'm sure that there isn't anything that I won't get to grips with sooner or later." Sir Ian smiled faintly. A Neil Grayling harassed and run off his feet was hardly likely to devote slabs of leisure time playing amateur classical singer on the side.
"I am involved in an interesting project that involves the united forces of the London based legal profession. It isn't by any means exclusive and I heard on the grapevine that this might be your cup of tea." "And what project is that?" Sir Ian took a deep breath and came to the point.
"We are getting together an amateur company to put on a performance of Haydn's "Creation." "That's quite a substantial enterprise, but well worth it if it is performed well," Grayling's considered judgement delivered his verdict as his mind's ear conjured up the piece. "You need to be sure that you have the people of the right calibre and the will to work together." "That's the point. A surprisingly large number of volunteers have come forward according to the latest that Joe Channing told me in passing. We understand that you might be interested in taking the part of Adam." A huge triumphant feeling of joy ran through his veins as if the Last Night of the Proms had invaded his spirits. If he had free rein to choose the ideal part, both the rich textures of the music and that particular part made it his first choice.
He had always known that a side of him felt born to be up there on the stage and was not afraid of the limelight. He had heard one of the Costa Cons describe him as a "media tart" When he wasn't supposed to be hearing. Secretly, he wouldn't disagree with this so long as his desire to hog centre stage of any photograph was as much as that side of him got a look in and that this was a surface symptom. Far deeper in him ran that deep love of classical music, which he had felt, forced to conceal deep inside him. Football and page 3 pinups formed the staple diet of the traditional PO Room and so this desire, along with the sexual side of him was suppressed and remained private. However his new job panned out, his tidy mind resolved to parcel out spare time spent in rehearsals, both personal and in a group. That decision was made in a flash.
"I would be proud and honoured to take up your offer, Ian, and play my part in the company." "If you had any thoughts of eventually working for us in the Lord Chancellor's Department, a sideways move across departments could be easily arranged. You are at the level where your management skills are easily transferable." Grayling hardly heard him. In the grand scheme of things, looking backward through time, this was remarkable of Grayling, the man whose hearing had always been finely attuned and responsive to whoever could advance his career. "I'll bear what you say in mind, Ian. This is something for us to get our teeth into." "I ought to warn you that this company won't be immune to the sorts of internal politics and rivalries that any organisation is subject to." Sir Ian felt duty bound to point out the pitfalls and warn this man whose enthusiasm was in danger of running away with him.
"After a working life in the prison service?" Grayling tactfully reminded him. "Don't worry, I'm used to finding my feet right now and I'll pull my weight. I give you my word on this." Grayling's assurance appeared lightly offered, almost throwaway in the eyes of the man who used to inhabit his skin a number of years ago. It was all the more real, despite that.
Grayling stepped into another world, into the imposing foyer of Cleland House. It was the antiseptic calm and utter quiet of it that hit him. An automatic pilot still running half expected the chorus of voices that he was used to and the still frozen blasts of air and cold feel of metal barred gates. Here, the efficient heating system of the old building wrapped him up in a womb-like warmth, leaving the cold outside. A row of rich red mahogany benches and high backs ran along the wall and in the corner the foliage of a large potted plant added a civilised touch. Such indeed was the symbolic core of the headquarters and the engine room of the prison service. Grayling's attention was fixed upon the man at the wide waist height reception desk, which ran the length of an angle of the room. The man had the untroubled air of an office where the greatest danger to life and limb was if the cleaners hadn't done their job properly. With a sudden shock, Grayling realised that the receptionist wasn't Ken. "You go to the fourth floor, turn right along the corridor, go through two sets of double doors and your office is the first one you come to. The box with all your personal effects is on your desk." "Thanks." It seemed that he was symbolically re-enacting his spiralling career climb to the dizzy heights that he had now ascended to when he had got to the fourth floor. He trod sedately along the grey carpets along the tastefully off white painted corridors while neon strip lights illuminated his journey. Not a soul stirred and this was a million miles away from the prison officers passing along the drearily painted bare brick narrow twisting tunnels that he was used to. He found his large office in a style that made his old office seem like a shabby imitation of it. He had done his best to make the creature comforts of his old position to personalise the place. Here, he was starting off with a blank sheet against the sort of furniture that symbolised what the workshops had fitted out a Victorian era of empire builders with. This wasn't elitism in its modern, aggressively plastic form but the continuum of rule despite the necessary grafting on of modern methods. As such a modern concession, he took in the flat wide screen computer at the corner of his desk and studied it approvingly.
Right in the middle of everything was the crate of his personal belongings which he had last seen at Larkhall, his link to his past and his own identity. His first job was to make himself at home. He sorted his stuff out into his desk drawers and, in pride of place, he put the card that the Julies had made. This was the symbol of his own continuity of his own past and a warning 'lest he forget.' He had made his promises and was determined to make good on it for the long term. He knew, well enough, that he would be the subject of much secret evaluation, how he 'fitted in' to the new culture and resolved that he would need to get the measure of the new relationships, not least his new boss, Alison Warner.
As he sat back in his comfortable chair, he noticed an empty secretary's desk and that he had an utterly cuckooned feeling. This place spoke of an utterly relaxed mode of operations in this atmosphere of mild spring. His old office was either hot and sweltering in summer or cold and draughty in winter. The utter silence of it was deafening compared to the background shouts of the women on the wings, the metallic clang of metal doors, the thud of cell doors closed. It had all merged into a background chorus while life went on all around him. Right now, he felt for a moment that he had bunked off school and had absconded in a building that he didn't belong to and someone would find him out. Yet his increased salary would be paid into the bank account from the Prison Service Pay Section indicating this new location. "Mr. Grayling, sir," Called out the cheerful fresh voiced woman who interrupted his musings. "I'm your secretary. I've kept out of your way, and I've been working elsewhere till you've settled yourself in. I thought you wouldn't want anyone poking their nose in till you were done." "Since you know my name already, perhaps I ought to know yours." "Tricia. Tricia Edwards. I was wondering if you wanted a cup of tea. I can brew up if you want." "Milk with no sugar. And thanks," Grayling smiled briefly.
Tricia's glance had taken in the layout of his desk straight away. There was no framed happy snapshot of wife and/or children that was common for this type of boss. The look of it was very neat, everything laid out very precisely in its geometrical and fastidious precision. It was bare, uncluttered and innexpressive except the oddly crudely coloured card in the middle of his desk. It was inscribed "To our Favourite Gov" and was clearly a leaving card from his last job. It was odd enough for a card to be on public display. Such cards were normally kept in the depths of some bureau to be studied in private moments of contemplation. They were not to be put on public display and were certainly not these strangely styled offerings. It spoke of the one inconsistency and was enigmatic.
Otherwise, he was neater, more fastidious than other men of his age, no wedding ring but pleasant and courteous enough. "You look as if you're at your first day at school, if I might say so." It was a bold move that might have spelt disaster for her if she had spoken that way to her average sort of boss. If there were anything in it, that type of inexpressive man would have translated it into furious anger at her. There had been something a little lost looking in Grayling's body language that prompted her to be more forward than she normally was on first acquaintance. "I feel like a new boy on my first day, Trisha." Grayling's face and whole body movement relaxed into a broad grin as he frankly admitted his unease. This woman was neatly dressed and immaculately groomed in the approved look that the head office required, even a typist required. She had that particular look but her manner reminded him of, dare he say it, the two Julies? He found that as they started to chat away to each other, he became more animated in his manner and opened up.
"It's nice having a real gent as a boss. My last one expected me to rush around in my lunch break to buy all his family's birthday cards so that he could pretend to his wife how thoughtful he was." "That won't be much of a problem as I haven't got much family. I could do with you watering the plants from time to time." "Oh that's all right. I like that sort of thing." Unconsciously, he was making his first presence felt quietly and unassumingly, learning his way around gradually, the utter opposite from the way he zoomed into Larkhall on his bike and carrying a sackful of grandiose plans. Just then, the phone rang.
"Grayling," He spoke automatically.
"Is that Performance Development?" "You're through to the Governing Governor at……." "Sorry, I've dialled the wrong number." The toneless voice at the other end paralleled Grayling's conversation but did not meet it, having realised his mistake.
"Well, it comes of being new around here. I'll learn." Trisha grinned at Grayling's wry smile and shrug of his shoulders as he nonchalantly passed off his mistake. "I suppose I need to get password access to my computer and browse round what is there. Who normally sorts out that sort of thing?" "I'll phone …." The second jangled phone ring cut Trisha short and this time, it was Alison Warner's voice.
"Grayling." "Ah Neil. I trust you have settled in comfortably." Her first words triggered Grayling's sense of caution. He would have to manage the first delicate power play to decide the balance of relations. He had run two prisons and had enjoyed years of relative autonomy from Area, buttressed by the fact of the miles of physical space between Larkhall and Cleland House. Now he was to become that more accessible. He had to learn to box clever, especially in this temporary period when he was new to the job. "Couldn't be better, Mrs. Warner," Grayling responded cheerily. "All I have to do is to get my access set up to my computer." "You can leave that till later as I thought it would be a good idea to have an introductory chat over coffee. It's by way of getting to know each other better." Grayling wasn't fooled by the over elaborate casual tone in her voice. In the past, he had pulled this sort of stroke on staff working for him.
Mrs. Warner put her cup of espresso coffee down after the preliminaries which defined more exactly where he fitted in and the day to day processes of his work and the relevant people he would need to be aware of. "Well, I hope I've made it clearer exactly what your duties are and where you fit into the scheme of things, Neil. I would be interested in your views of how you see yourself in your new role, bearing in mind the delicacy of balancing between the dictates of the Home Office on the one hand and your responsibility for a group of prisons on the other." Neil sipped slowly from the cup of coffee in order to finalise his thoughts.
"My approach is to learn the job from the bottom up, use what I have learned as Governing Governor and integrate it in the wider picture in which we operate. I would never want to gloss over the reality of those who do the day to day jobs in the prisons. After that, I constantly re-evaluate my perspective and that I pay particular attention to the lines of communication, that whoever I deal with understands where I am coming from and vice versa." "Your views are surprisingly unadventurous and pedestrian for your proven reputation. I quote from a speech at a conference where you delivered a paper on the part privatisation model and I quote. 'My vision of the future of the prison service as one of part privatisation. It marries up what is best preserved of the traditions of the public service, its maintenance of standards, its conscientious spirit, with the thrusting dynamic entrepreneurial , go getting spirit of private initiative which will dare conceive of new ideas." Grayling was taken aback by the smug, triumphant tone in Alison Warner's voice which tried to trap him in the prison of his past. Did he really come out with that load of bollocks and do it, speaking into a microphone and standing before a crowded conference hall?
"My direct experience of Lynfords Security showed that the reality was less satisfying than the promise. It is a firm you may remember," Grayling started, speaking slowly, watching Mrs. Warner wince at the name that was best forgotten. "The trouble with many marriages these days is that they end up in too many broken homes for children to grow up in, which I did." She reacted sharply to this heresy in slightly hostile tones. It felt right to start drawing the line with him and get things clear right from the start. However, her big weakness was in working from Grayling's reputation and not from the reality of him.
"It's ironical that your speech went down well here and in other quarters. The sort of sentiments which you seem to disown and turn your back on. You ought to sound out the views of your colleagues before you make free with your present sentiments and the rather blunt way you express them. You don't want to get a reputation as a maverick, as a bad team player if you know what's good for you." "Times change people, me included. I have learned to become careful in being over eager in building castles upon sand foundations. My approach is entirely pragmatic, Mrs. Warner. I have no fixed political ideology. I am simply concerned to find out what works and what doesn't. I'm quite sure that you value success as much as I do." Grayling's silky tones and hint of a smile disarmed Mrs. Warner's frosty and vaguely threatening manner. It attracted her with the one sure argument, that most addictive temptation of the desire for success. However, she could not let matters go without one last parting shot.
"It was you that sold area on the idea of Karen Betts as the new Governing Governor of Larkhall. It has had a chequered past, hasn't it. Of course you know that if its reputation doesn't change, eyes will turn to you as the person who recommended her for the job, won't they?" "Time will tell either way, Mrs. Warner," Came Grayling's unconcerned reply before he made his unhurried exit.
Neil was finally enabled to unlock the secrets of the computer which were stored within it. He navigated his way round the structure of the Word directories and the chain of sub sub directories and the E mail database and felt easier in his mind. "Mr. Grayling, you have a visitor," Trisha's voice disturbed his thoughts. "Sir Ian Rochester." "Show him in." Inwardly, Grayling was startled. It was the first time he had spoken up close to the man for a long time. Their normal occasions for communications was the long distance phone call. Both of their careers needed far reaching contacts that would be useful. He remembered with a twinge of bad conscience the time when his desires for Jim Fenner made him prepared to sacrifice Karen to the demands of expediency. He didn't like to think back to that part of his life. Otherwise, he and Laurence James were two brooding background physical presences at the back of the visitor's gallery at the time of the Atkins trial. He gestured him to comfortable seats and Sir Ian failed to spot the card on his office desk.
"Sir Ian, it's a long time since we have properly talked. What brings you here?" Sir Ian smiled affably. He wasn't sure how to play his cards in this delicate manoeuvre. It wasn't every day that his skills of persuasion were called upon to recruit members for an amateur orchestra. Nevertheless he supposed that his normal gambits would be enough to secure compliance so long as the man was as good a singer as the grapevine told him that he was. "I thought I'd look you up while I'm on my rounds. I was expecting to have to go through the bolts and bars at Larkhall till I was told you'd got your promotion. It must be quite a change after years at the coal face as it were." "Early days, Ian. I'm sure that there isn't anything that I won't get to grips with sooner or later." Sir Ian smiled faintly. A Neil Grayling harassed and run off his feet was hardly likely to devote slabs of leisure time playing amateur classical singer on the side.
"I am involved in an interesting project that involves the united forces of the London based legal profession. It isn't by any means exclusive and I heard on the grapevine that this might be your cup of tea." "And what project is that?" Sir Ian took a deep breath and came to the point.
"We are getting together an amateur company to put on a performance of Haydn's "Creation." "That's quite a substantial enterprise, but well worth it if it is performed well," Grayling's considered judgement delivered his verdict as his mind's ear conjured up the piece. "You need to be sure that you have the people of the right calibre and the will to work together." "That's the point. A surprisingly large number of volunteers have come forward according to the latest that Joe Channing told me in passing. We understand that you might be interested in taking the part of Adam." A huge triumphant feeling of joy ran through his veins as if the Last Night of the Proms had invaded his spirits. If he had free rein to choose the ideal part, both the rich textures of the music and that particular part made it his first choice.
He had always known that a side of him felt born to be up there on the stage and was not afraid of the limelight. He had heard one of the Costa Cons describe him as a "media tart" When he wasn't supposed to be hearing. Secretly, he wouldn't disagree with this so long as his desire to hog centre stage of any photograph was as much as that side of him got a look in and that this was a surface symptom. Far deeper in him ran that deep love of classical music, which he had felt, forced to conceal deep inside him. Football and page 3 pinups formed the staple diet of the traditional PO Room and so this desire, along with the sexual side of him was suppressed and remained private. However his new job panned out, his tidy mind resolved to parcel out spare time spent in rehearsals, both personal and in a group. That decision was made in a flash.
"I would be proud and honoured to take up your offer, Ian, and play my part in the company." "If you had any thoughts of eventually working for us in the Lord Chancellor's Department, a sideways move across departments could be easily arranged. You are at the level where your management skills are easily transferable." Grayling hardly heard him. In the grand scheme of things, looking backward through time, this was remarkable of Grayling, the man whose hearing had always been finely attuned and responsive to whoever could advance his career. "I'll bear what you say in mind, Ian. This is something for us to get our teeth into." "I ought to warn you that this company won't be immune to the sorts of internal politics and rivalries that any organisation is subject to." Sir Ian felt duty bound to point out the pitfalls and warn this man whose enthusiasm was in danger of running away with him.
"After a working life in the prison service?" Grayling tactfully reminded him. "Don't worry, I'm used to finding my feet right now and I'll pull my weight. I give you my word on this." Grayling's assurance appeared lightly offered, almost throwaway in the eyes of the man who used to inhabit his skin a number of years ago. It was all the more real, despite that.