16. MARMADUKE HACKED

A Newshound gets his teeth into Marmaduke

Marmaduke sighed inwardly when he spotted the news reporter on Downing Street, waiting for anything that might be juicy enough to fill the paper he worked for.

It was Basil Beechhound, well known for trying to expose every frailty, real or not, in the Government. In he aimed most of his barbs in the direction of the Prime Minister, which is why he was lurking not far from number ten of Downing Street. But Marmaduke's sigh quickly changed into a mental ray of sunshine because, and this was only a frail hope, he just might be able to turn any questions the notable newshound might ask him to his own advantage. After all, he knew better than most that the PM was walking a dodgy path, varying from issuing confusing suggestions, direct lies and the praise of a cartoon animal. But he didn’t have too much time to think because Basil Beechhound pounced.

“Ah, Mr Lauderdale: I sense that you’ve been in conference with the Prime Minister,” he began with a broad smile that was about as steeped in humour as the expression on the face of freshly flogged schoolboy from history.

Marmaduke had to think quickly, something his life had ill-equipped him to do.

So he said the first thing that came into his head.

“He wanted to discuss single fatherhood with me. You know, a man bringing up his children without a woman at hand. It’s widely thought that mothers make better and more natural parents than do fathers,but some men have to do it.”

Basil Beechhound thought that this sounded like a likely leader for the next day’s front page. Did it, he mused in a split second, mean that the Prime Minister was expecting to be left in the lurch, with both his wife and a handful of mistresses leaving him to tackle parentood on his own?

“Your own wife left you, I believe?” he asked.

Now Marmaduke had very few decent thoughts in his head, but for once he sought one out and used it.

“The high pressure of being married to a Member of Parliament got to her,” he said. Not quite, but almost, the truth, which was decent of him compared to several of the other suggestions that masqueraded as intelligent thoughts. Like, she wasn’t a good mother and anyway the baby wasn’t mine…

Then came the killer question, one that made Marmaduke squeal inwardly.

“And the Prime Minister was seeking your advice on a sensitive matter. Does this mean that his own fine lady wife has decided to go her own way and will take the children with her? You can speak candidly because our readers will be more than merely interested.”

I’m sure they will! Anyone who believes what your rag says would be interested in any disaster that befell the powerful, be they politicians or pop stars!

“Not at all. He knows someone, that’s all, who may be in that position soon,” he said, and he grinned when he realised he had given a purely truthful answer, because the Prime Minister did know him, Marmaduke Lauderdale, didn’t he?

But Basil Beechhound was used to politicians whose main function in life seemed to be to lead him astray, and he was up to dealing with them.

“That’s exciting,” he said, “I suppose it’s the Home Secretary. Is he on the cusp of becoming a lonely single dad with his seven children pulling at his apron strings? That would be difficult for any man.”

Marmaduke had never counted the Honourable David Dewhurst’s children but vaguely know he had more than the fictitious two point four offspring. In particular he know that the man had a daughter, teens or early twenties, who was supposed to be the most beautiful girl in the kingdom, though he didn’’t think there was anything special about her unless you counted her enormous bosom. Maybe, he thought, that was the secret to female success: enormous bosoms. But that spontaneous thought was a mistake. It distracted him at a time when he was supposed to be doing the distracting.

“Enormous bosoms,” he said aloud, unable to put a brake on the two words before they were out in the air of Downing Street.

“What was that?” asked Basil, pushing his small recording device as close to his quarry as he dared, “enormous bosoms?”

Another bit of uncharacteristic quick thinking was called for. “Look: over there,” said Marmaduke pointing vaguely at the roof of Number Eleven, “that bird: a great tit, I think it is. Yes, it is. Beautiful, don’t you think. My wife and I, because I am actually still married despite what your newspaper has suggested, call them enormous bosoms in fun!It’s a play on words that we quite like.”

Dragona would be horrified if she heard me say that, but I can always deny it if she gets to hear my actual words!

“I can’t see any birds up there?” growled Basil, actually looking and struggling to see past the light from the sun.

“You’re too slow! It flew off, but I’m sure it’s what Dragona would call an enormous bosom!” invented Marmaduke

“Oh. I see.” Basil Beechhound scowled at him, not believing a word ot it. “So I can print that, can I? Tell me, where did the nickname for that particular species of bird originate? Was it because your wife had, let me put it delicately, a large chest? Or is it because she’d like to have a large chest? One larger than she’s got? Or maybe she thinks her chest isn’t large enough?”

Marmaduke found himself floundering.

“Look,” he stammered, “I must go. I have an appointment.”

“But tell, me,” asked his unwelcome inquisitor, “what was the Prime Minister doing, discussing enormous bosoms with you? I mean, it’s not a very ministerial subject for two gentlemen to be laughing about, is it? My readers may choose to wonder if that’s what they pay the heavy burden of their taxes for Surelt there are greater matters for Number Ten to be concerned with?”

“I didn’t say we were laughing!”

“So the PM was taking the subject of well chested women seriously, was he, if he wasn’t laughing at it? Do you think that if the Home Secretary’s wife is leaving her husband as you suggested then our leader might be eyeing his wife to replace his own? I know the daughter is meant to be a beauty, but the lass’s mother isn’t so bad looking either… might there be some scandal at the heart of Government?”

“I never suggested anything like that!” shouted Marmaduke.

“Ha! That tells a lot of the story, you raising your voice on Downing Street! So there must be an element of truth in what you say even though you might be trying to conceal it behind jocular phraseology. The next few weeks should be interesting, don’t you think. So did the Prime minister ask to see you in order to promote a young member of his parliament to work in the Home Office as a junior minister while the Home Secretary tries to mend his long and fruitful marriage? Maybe with chocolate and flowers? Is that it? Are you aiming for high things, Mr Lauderdale?”

No! He wanted to give me the sack! shrieked in his brain, but the words that came out of his mouth were far more ambiguous.

“I can’t possibly comment,” he said, and stalked off.

The next day’s newspaper screamed all sorts of things on its front page, all carefully selected from how he’d answered the hack’s questions and all very enlightening if you like to be enlightened by the twisted words of one Basil Beechhound.

THE HOME SECRETARY SACKED! Marmaduke Lauderdale said this as he left Number Ten after being invited to take his place in the Home Office…

And when he arrived back home his phone was ringing, and it didn’t stop until he pulled the wire that connected it from its socket and slung it into his wheeled bin.

Which is why he didn’t hear the one important call from his solicitor.

© Peter Rogerson 02.06.22