Next Time You'll Listen

“Tea’s late again,” Andrews sighed.

“I know. It gets worse every day. We really need to talk to house-keeping.” Smithson shook his newspaper out as he turned the page and tutted. “I see the protesting is back again.”

“Wastrels. What are they complaining about this time?”

“Who can say. They’re never happy, are they? Want the world for nothing, never want to do a day’s work in their life. Blast it, where is that tea-lady?”

“Ring the bell again, old boy. Drat it all, we have to go to the chamber anyhow.” With a sigh Andrews downed the last of his port and gave an exasperated sigh. “Better get down there old chap. Can’t let the opposition have their way now, can we?”

The pair of them gathered their papers, finished their sandwiches and cold drinks and put their jackets back on. As they were heading to the door the tea lady came in, pushing her trolley.

“Little late there darling,” Andrews said, shaking his head as he waited for her to stand aside. The woman was flustered, and had to wrestle the trolley out the way. The longer it took the deeper the two gentlemen frowned, until at last they could get past without having to touch her. They didn’t acknowledge her curtsy as they went.

Two floors down they started to make out the sound of people shouting outside.

“Is that those protesters? Good lord, they make a racket don’t they?” Andrews said.

“Rather, old chap. Don’t they realise some of us are trying to work? And speaking of, don’t they have anything better to do?” Smithson ran a finger around his collar. Those shouts got louder- and more aggressive- each day, and had started to get disconcerting.

“I doubt any of them would know what a day’s hard work even was. Speaking of, are you going to this dinner arranged for tomorrow evening? To discuss that new policy Evans has put forward?”

“I think so. Just need to check that there’s nothing else I’ve got… oh, lord, what are they doing?”

Further down the corridor was a young woman. She paused for a moment and looked around, then she spotted the pair of them and rushed over.

“Ministers!” she called, with a forced smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“What is it girl? We’re busy,” Andrews said as he ran his eyes up and down her body. His gaze lingered around her chest, until he decided she’d be more trouble than it was worth. The scrutiny didn’t go unnoticed, and she blushed as she clenched her teeth.

“I have a petition. If you could-”

“Don’t be ridiculous girl. We don’t just take the random dribble of any hussy who finds her way inside. Smithson, deal with this will you? I’ll make sure they don’t get on to anything important.” And with a wave at Smithson and a last look at the woman- or at least, her chest- Andrews marched off down the corridor, his heels clicking as he went.

Smithson expected the woman to just leave as well. They were only weak things, bless them. Yet the woman stayed, tenser than before but still there. He took the chance to check her out as well; scruffy hair, cheap clothes, and a dull face. Could she look any more out of place in these grand halls?

“If you would, minister,” she said. “As a member of the public that you serve, I would appreciate if you could present this petition to the house.” She handed a wad of papers over, and Smithson was taken aback at how thick it was. A quick flick through showed that each page was covered in writing as well, unlike half the reports the ministers submitted.

“Um. You realise this isn’t usual-”

“With respect, minister,” she interrupted, showing absolutely no respect, “this isn’t a usual circumstance. Listen.” And she gestured to the exterior wall, where sure enough the disturbances outside could still be heard. “We are doing as much as we can to go through proper channels. I would appreciate it if you could assist us in this.”

“And if I don’t?” Smithson snapped. How dare she talk to him like that? Who on earth did she think she was? She was just a scruffy vagabond, had she no respect at all?

And yet, his hand round the papers shook a little. She was a member of the public, and weren’t they suppose to be the people he served? No. He pushed the thought away. The people he served had manners, and knew how to dress themselves and how to talk to their superiors.

“Then that’s your prerogative.” When Smithson raised an eyebrow at her vocabulary she gave him a wicked smile. Entirely unladylike, Andrews was right, she was a hussy. “But this is your warning. The people want change, and we will get it. If you are not helping us, then you are hindering us, and that makes you part of the old regime that needs to go.”

“Now look here young lady-”

“I hope you will think on it minister. Good day to you.”

The woman turned and walked away, as cock-sure as Andrews had, leaving Smithson standing there pointing his finger at empty air.

The shaking from the confrontation turned to ripples of anger and he raised the petition above his head, ready to cast it to the floor. As if in response there was a swell of noise from outside, and Smithson’s arm caught. They were getting angrier. What if they were serious? Would they- could they- really do away with all this?

“Of course not,” he muttered to the empty corridor. “Old as the empire all this. Ordained by God.”

And yet, when Smithson snuck into the chamber a few minutes later, he was still clutching the petition.

“What’s that?” Andrews hissed at him as the opposition dribbled on about something.

“From that woman.”

“Dear god. Toss it out old chap. We don’t want the likes of her in here. Keep it civil, hey sport.”

Smithson tucked the petition to the bottom of his papers, and for the next few hours the men in the chamber droned on, accompanied by the low hum of the noise from the trouble outside.

At the end of the day they were escorted home by police, and it wasn’t until he reached the safety of his house that Smithson realised he still had the woman’s petition. He held it above the bin, then flicked through it, then held it above the bin again. For a vagabond the woman was surprisingly eloquent. The few sentences he caught on the pages were well-phrased, and very impassioned. Spoken by someone of class on the floor this would be a powerful piece.

When he went to bed the petition was still sat on his desk. In his dreams Smithson was faced with the woman again, in various states of undress, and the whole time he was followed by the baying of the mob.

As dawn broke, and he realised he wasn’t going to get any more sleep that night, he got up and went to his study to start working. The petition glared at him as he came in, and he tossed it straight in the bin.

“Stupid woman,” he growled, before ringing the bell to wake his butler.

Hours later he made his way back to the offices, once more with a police escort. They were almost at the door when they got way-laid by the crowds, and in the end the police officer had to drag Smithson into the building. Inside he headed straight up to the common room, and smiled gratefully to see Andrews already there.

“Good lord, old boy,” Andrews said when he spotted him. “Is it still as bad out there?”

“Rather. Quite an awful commotion.” Taking the glass of brandy from Andrews, Smithson started picking pieces of food off his clothing. “What are we going to do about them?”

“Do, old chap? We’re going to do nothing. They just want some attention, they’ll be gone in a day or two. Nothing to show for it but some minor property damage. Then we’ll get some peace at last, and can get back to some actual work rather than all this nonsense.”

Before Smithson could reply there was a commotion from the window.

“Now what are those layabouts getting up to?”

The ministers gathered around the window as the cries from outside became more and more desperate. When he managed to force his way to the front Smithson saw someone moving on the roof opposite.

It was the woman from yesterday.

She completely ignored the police clambering after her as she got into position at the very edge of the roof. Everyone in the room had their heart in their mouths as she turned to face them.

Despite the distance between them, despite the fact that he was squashed against the window frame, Smithson was sure that the woman met his gaze as she lifted up her banner. He just about had time to read it before she stepped forward, right off the roof. The police lunged after her, but she was gone.

Seconds later there were screams from ground level.

As the other ministers turned away, muttering ‘bad show’ and ‘unstable woman’ Smithson stayed frozen to the spot. All he could think about, as he watched her banner drift to the ground after her, was the petition he’d thrown in the bin. The words on the banner etched themselves into his brain.

‘You should have listened.’