“But unto Cain and to his offering he had not respect. And Cain was very wroth, and his countenance fell.”
- Genesis, 4:5
22nd September 2010
It will be just like taking off a plaster, the Shadow Foreign Secretary thought to himself. Fair enough, it will hurt like hell to start with, but really, he has to be taught a lesson.
“David Miliband, in the MPs and MEPs section, received seventeen point eight one two percent...”
She’s really mugging this, David Miliband thought to himself as Ann Black pedantically went down to three decimal places.
“…in the members section, eighteen point one three five percent...”
David Miliband barely registered the figures, instead taking all his energy to focus very hard on not so much as glancing at the figure three seats to his left. Perhaps he would be given Shadow BIS, but only if there was a backbench revolt about having to keep the internal elections in place.
“…and in the affiliates section, thirteen point four zero percent...”
There was a flurry of gasps. This time, he did take attention of the people around him. He paused, adding the numbers.
“…making a total of forty-nine point…”
Here it comes.
“…point three five percent…”
There was no way this should have happened. Unite had been their usual self-defeating fools, but that should not have been enough to tip him over the edge. Surely.
There was derisory applause.
“…Ed Miliband, in the MPs and MEPs section, received fifteen point five two two percent…”
That was less than he got, obviously.
“…in the members section, fifteen point one nine eight percent...”
Fewer people there as well, he noted, stretching his lips into his best approximation of a smile.
“…and in the affiliates, nineteen point nine three four percent…”
There was cheering, far louder than it possibly warranted. This time, he did look to his side. There was Andy, doing his usual impression of a lost Scouse puppy. To the other, wedging him to the side was Diane, who was still coming across like a fan who had won a competition. Ed, not his Ed, was already clapping. That was typical enough of the Brownites of course. Family ties matter nothing, so long as it meant that Gordon could have his way.
“…making…”
Better start making some sort of reaction, he thought as one synapse kicked into gear, bypassing the brain and making directly for the legs, or this is not going to play well to the cameras.
“…a total of…”
Why is the room spinning, he thought to himself, as his legs carried him down towards the new Leader of the Labour Party. In five seconds, the past five years flashed passed. The slight twinge of fear when he’d heard about the selection in Doncaster North should have resonated more. On the morning after Tony had gone, there had been that momentary flash of anger when he had heard who had been appointed to the Cabinet Office. He had dismissed it of course, being far too pleased with kicking around the Locarno Suit. Yet it had all come unstuck, he remembered, when he had dithered over the Guardian letter.
“David,” he heard a whisper, “thanks for everything”
Then came the arms, he realised, as he was thrown into a gawky, somewhat stiff, embrace. Typical of you, he thought, as the noised reached a crescendo around him. You always wanted this, there hasn’t been a moment when you didn’t want to get one over on me.
“Well done,” he lied, “it was an honour.”
He still hadn't heard the exact total. The margin of defeat from the affiliates had done it, he paused for a moment, why hadn’t he decided to put Skinner and Jon out on the doorstep more? There were the mutual back slaps going on now, as he muttered a final insincere pleasantry to the man opposite, hoping that he at least left a mark. He moved to the side, still straining the sides of his mouth, as Andy moved in for the kill. There was a flash as the first of the cameras started their political paparazzi attack, leaving him momentarily blinded. He looked to the side, noticing six of his campaign team sat a few rows away, most of them not even trying to hide their disappointment. For a moment, he simply stood, witnessing a tear slide down on of the staffers’ cheeks.
He realised what he needed to do.
“…and the winner, and Leader of the Labour Party…”
Ed had reached the stage now, not even waiting for Black to finish off the final figure. Not for the first time, each number had hit him like a dagger in the chest. Was this it, he thought, a legacy that had peaked as a fag-end Foreign Secretary?
“…on behalf of all the party,” Black said, summing up, “I offer you my congratulations, our congratulations and our support.”
You almost sound like you mean it, David thought, still clapping away. The rest of you don’t though, do you? He looked around again, aside from Hilary and the NUT mob at the far end of the chamber, everyone else seemed to be wearing plastered on smiles and nonplussed expressions. He sniffed, even Balls looked uninspired now, as if realising that he had not split the vote in the way that he had expected to.
“…are you going to stay with us?” Burnham whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
Turning his attention back towards the stage, hearing the first adenoidal words from his new Leader, David Miliband remembered what it felt like to hate.
“You know what Andy,” he found himself saying, “I rather think that I will…”
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Though I'd be remiss if I didn't play party pooper slightly and say I believe the candidates were all told in private just before the announcement, as is custom in these things.
