IR turned to regard the source of this invitation, surprised at being recognised. This was after all his first day of being ‘somebody,’ following years of anonymity, and he was still getting used to it.
“Begging your pardon sir,” said IR, “but I don’t believe we’ve m……”
“One need not have been introduced to a fellow in order to know him,” quipped the fox, “but allow me to carelessly throw away the advantage I currently enjoy. My name is Lucinius Trebellius de Astonishing, but I am more commonly known by the pseudonym ‘Volpe.’”
“Volpe……” said IR, searching his memory. “I know the name from somewhere. Are you a politician by any chance?”
“One never thinks to insult another’s amour-propre at the first meeting by accusing him of being a politician Richardson. But yes, I am.”
IR was less than reassured “I don’t recall seeing your name on the list of councillors, sir,” he said, trying vainly to match the stranger’s vocal presence. “In what capacity do you practice politics?”
Volpe afforded IR an indulgent, condescending smile - the sort of expression which a parent would wear upon being presented with a child’s first, messy attempt at painting a picture. “I am far too sceptical to be involved in anything requiring as much naivety as sitting on a council, my friend,” he enunciated carefully. “No, my field is that of the political mind. In short I am a writer, a theorist, an agitator and an agent provocateur. It is the duty of every good citizen to disapprove of me.”
“I see,” responded IR (not fully seeing), “well, as pleasant as this little banter has been, I’m afraid I’m a bit pressed for time. What can I do for you?”
“You may do me an equal courtesy to that done to the dead Owl, mon avian ami,” smiled Volpe, “that is to sit and give me your undeserved attention to the political zealotry of a frustrated demagogue. After all, the Owl and I are two very un-kindred spirits, united only by our dislike of each other, and by the current leadership of our land.”
IR decided that this enigmatic creature may have something to offer after all, and parked himself upon the seat opposite Volpe. “Are you saying you are opposed to Enoch’s political philosophy?” he asked tentatively.
“If one is to be judged by his questions rather than his answers, then your value has just increased, Richardson. Indeed we are diametrically opposed. Enoch mercilessly beats the drum of tradition, I pluck the harp of progress. While he wishes to conserve all that he believes great about the country, I wish to change all that I believe wrong with it. He looks at change and asks ’why?’ I look at change and ask ‘why not?’ However, he hides his bigotry as I hide my revolutionism, because there is nothing more dangerous than being right when the current government is wrong.”
IR furrowed his brow in concentration. “So, despite your differences with Enoch, you both disapprove of the policies the government is following,” IR ventured. “But what Enoch wants to return to, above everything else, is common sense. What can possibly be wrong with that?”
“Common sense is what tells us the earth is flat and that the Sun goes around it,” Volpe said, still radiating the same amiable malevolence, “and it is all too common. Anything truly sensible must be entirely free of prejudice. Now let us examine both the conduct of our government and the ideas of Enoch Owl in view of this.”
“I’m listening …..” said Improbable Richardson…. “So” …IR finally countered, “you are saying that Enoch’s adherence to common sense is a sham? That he wears a mask to disguise his real intentions?”
Volpe took a drink from what appeared to be a bottle of very old malt, although IR was devoid of expertise in these things. The fox savoured it for a moment before swallowing. “Yes….. And no,” he said enigmatically, “the Owl is sincere in what he purports, of that I have no doubt. But he has always been used and manipulated by those with vested interests in maintaining the status quo. The old boy has a certain charisma, there’s no denying that, and as such is the ideal mouthpiece for the cause he represents, wittingly or otherwise.”
“And who are these citizens whose vested interests he supposedly represents? So far you seem to be gabbling in generalities.”
Volpe favoured the budgerigar with a smile that could almost be described as predatory. “Richardson, when the share price of naivety rises you shall be a rich bird. The Owl speaks in the interests of those who have always held the wealth and power in this country. The aristocracy, titled or corporate, media barons, profiteers of every kind. You will find that those with power are keen to avoid letting it go, or sharing it with the common citizens.”
IR looked confused once more. “But I didn’t hear Enoch mention anything about business moguls or rich individuals or any of the others you named,” he protested.
Volpe arched an immaculately sculpted red eyebrow. “Of course he doesn’t!” cried the fox, “if one wishes to steal someone’s watch, one doesn’t make one’s admiration of said timepiece known to its owner. Did you know that seventy-six percent of this country’s wealth is owned by less than ten percent of the populace? Were you aware that millions of citizens dwell under the canopy of impoverishment so that the lucky few may enjoy their lives in opulent luxury rather than mere average luxury?”
IR was taken aback by the sudden zeal in Volpe’s manner. He stuttered “Well ….I … no. That is, I haven’t been made aware of these….”
“And why would that be? Because, as is with the rest of the country your outrage is focussed on trivia like not being able to sing a particular nursery rhyme. Or is it that your violated sense of fair play causes you to blame this or that act of so-called positive discrimination in favour of some undeserving minority, for all that is wrong? More likely it is because, when our beloved free press are not filling their pages with the debauchery and fall of whichever vapid celebrity is their hesternal golden child, that is exactly what they are intravenously drip-feeding into the soul of our country.” Volpe poured himself another scotch, which he drank in one swift motion. He then resumed. “So, when some idiotic councillor decides to curry favour with his superiors by banning the recantation of a nursery rhyme which gives offence to nobody, it is headline news. This relatively isolated incident, due to its disproportionate prominence in the media and subsequently in public conversation, is suddenly the harbinger of national epidemic! Citizens feel their way of life is being oppressed. Who then becomes the target of their ire? Of course - it’s the beneficiaries of this attack, to wit the minorities, the reds, the blues, the albinos, the most oppressed of all, despite the fact that they did not ask for any special treatment, but only to be considered equals. Meanwhile the oppressors go on dominating the political and economic life of the country, without the inconvenience of a popular uprising. It is a marvel that the disenfranchised have so easily been tricked into kicking downward to let out their anger in some bizarre kinetic transfer, in entirely the opposite direction to the architects of their woe.”
IR sat silently absorbing Volpe’s diatribe, trying to form the salient pieces into a completed, coherent jigsaw. Stuck for any retort at present he focussed on his companion’s whisky bottle. “Judging by your expensive looking drink and your sartorial elegance, you seem to be fairly well-off yourself,” he said.
“Very astute.” Volpe smiled without pausing. “In fact I am probably comfortably in the ten percent of which I made erstwhile mention.”
“Are you therefore a hypocrite, sir?” asked IR trying not to sound overly antagonistic.
“Oh absolutely Richardson. But you’ll find that in these days of no trust, we hypocrites are the only truly honest citizens left.” Volpe stood, folding his newspaper and eased past IR. “Just bear in mind,” he said, “that PC is not what it may seem to be. It is a tool which is employed by those who wish popular frustration to focus on citizens other than themselves. Conduct your investigation Councillor, but always keep both your eyes and your mind open.” The fox directed a smile and a wink at IR, then flipped a silver c
oin to Collie as he left the Old Oak.
Richardson lingered a few moments and realised that both Enoch and Volpe had made sense in their very different approaches to an acceptable political landscape. He also thought that maybe both had slight flaws in their grand designs, but engaging in such discussion was not for now. One difference between himself and these two heavyweights was that he had been elected to do a job, and as well as having a blueprint of Nirvana, he would have to deal with tasks coming over the transom and landing on his desk, with no logical priority, just requiring his attention. Pragmatic decisions would be as much the order of the day as strategic ones. His thoughts also flitted to the language of both Enoch and Volpe, realising he would have to reinforce his vocabulary if he was to be taken seriously.
***
IR trundled off to the library where he was greeted enthusiastically by Reynarda Silenzio, daughter of Enrico, another fox, who had come to his village just after the second great conflict. Reynarda asked how she could help, and when Richardson thought about it, he couldn’t really put it into simple words, so he decided to browse.
The library had that protected atmosphere, musty aroma jousting with that of leather binding. The sheer array of indexed volumes had one at a disadvantage and signalled a whole unexplored experience just waiting for the enquirer. It would be easy to become side-tracked here or even worse - overawed.
Meanwhile back at the pub, Sniffy had wasted no time logging on to the Wise Old Owl.
“You again,” grumbled the hologram, “why do you persist when all of our previous encounters have been dull and deadlocked by your overt opportunism in trying to dig into my conversations with others? You know I will never divulge any of that. I predict you will say that is not what you want, which almost certainly confirms it is exactly what you want”
“You’re incredibly annoying considering you are actually deceased, however I just felt we may be in for a turbulent time ahead, you know, with a new Leader of the Council, and I really mean new. He seems unlike anyone I’ve had the misfortune to report upon. Maybe he could be a vehicle for you and me, enabling us to finally credit each other with the kind of respect which hitherto hasn’t been evident. I can see this as a jumping off point, through my reporting contacts, and of course your dogma, er sorry, doctrine, being ‘de-mothballed,’ you know, like a kind of retro pilgrimage.”
“Still surfing both sides of the board Sniffy, I like it best when you seem to be underwater, silently talking your contagious conjecture to the authors of headlines. Written to provoke citizens instead of thought.”
“Look Old Photon, we may not like each other but we need each other. It is hard to believe but I actually liked you better when you were alive, you made the odd gaffe, let a little too much slip, it was fun. This new citizen on the block, - I can tell by the expression on your pixels that you see something in him, and whatever it is I can help. News is what I exist for, not what it is, just the constant supply of it. I don’t judge, I don’t care. I’m a junkie who gets his rocks off making sure that nobody gets a chance to dwell in comfort before other citizens have the full SP – instant awareness for all, a kind of closed loop, nobody, and I mean nobody, should be immune. Distasteful to you but critical to the concept that everyone should have the opportunity to have an opinion on anything. Let’s face it, the same citizens you’d be concerned about wanting to know the Chancellor’s preferred sexual position are the same ones voting on another sort of entry - the EU (Edifice of Un-fulfilment). I ask you, which is more dangerous? It is of course understandable that you don’t like me or my colleagues for what we do, but even a stubborn, high and mighty like you must realise that although some innocents get hurt there is an overall disincentive for closets to house skeletons. It’s similar to a debate on the merits of the death penalty.”
“There is a dubious logic in what you say, especially as the world I would like to envisage cannot really exist without your grubby little domain. Ok, where are we going with this?”
“Enoch, can you tell me anything about this Improbable Richardson that could be helpful in giving our citizens hope, that real change could be imminent? As you may have worked out for yourself, even exposing sleaze isn’t news any more, it’s like hearing that one of our soldiers has been killed in some faraway place. We are shocked at first, not surprised next time, and finally immune to that terrible repetitive news, and why? Because nobody is prepared to change the situation. Governments are obsessed with their term of office and re-election, not the long term welfare of its citizens. Will you help me?”
“Badger, either this is a very clever ploy to get what you are after or you really are a complex cocktail of frivolity and responsibility.”
“Both.” said Sniffy, resigned to failure again with the Owl. His eyes widened and sparkled when the hologram replied.
“I am going to trust you with one comment which I am sure Mr Richardson would not mind me passing on, but it could be earth shattering news for you.”
“I’ll just get my laptop and……”
“You won’t need it old adversary, it is very simple. He wants to restore common sense to every aspect of the Local Council, despite the potential resistance and likelihood that he will be terminated before he achieves anything. He is unafraid of that consequence, which may just be the most powerful tool he has. A powerful tool needs help in clearing the landscape to target the pain. Still think you can help? Can you imagine the Imodium consumption in high places if this even gets off the ground?”
“Bloody Hell, Enoch, this is big, mega in fact, protection of such a hatching egg will need enormous effort in scanning for hijackers, but it has the potential to cross a lot of boundaries. You see! I told you we needed each other. I’ll report back shortly, and by the way thanks for the trust.”
***
Browsing the library shelves resulted in piles of potential references to the development of post-war politics and society. It was a daunting task to get up to speed this way and a cautionary thought ballooned into his head – as with any historical account the text would have a degree of interpretation as well as factual content – separating the two would be judgemental. He was puzzling over this when Reynarda approached and whispered, “You look confused, are you sure I can’t help?”
“Well,” IR spluttered, “I wish you could, but I hardly know what I am looking for myself.”
Her closeness and the emanation of her subtle perfume added to his sagging confidence.
“This often happens in a library, tell me the problem.”
“Mm, I want to find out how we used to have a relatively simple structure and implementation of government, laws, taxation and welfare, and then ended up with the convoluted, complicated, messy situation we have now. I fear though, I might have to go much further back on some issues than others. Also, I don’t have time to plough through all this literature. I need to have précis without the minutiae.”
“Aha,” beamed the foxy librarian, “why don’t you talk to my father? He came to this country and tried to set up a business, helping to integrate his family during this period. And although he was looking at this challenge initially from an outsider’s viewpoint, he realised quickly that he must stop comparing everything to his former country if he was to enjoy the life he wanted. He realised he would only be truly accepted by his new countrymen if his ancestry became invisible. He would only succeed in business if his product was wanted. If this was an easy principle to accept on a business level, he wondered why so many immigrants resist it on a community level. These are his words not mine. By the way, I think you are right about needing to go further back in time to determine the root of some problems, there is a copy of ‘The History of the World’ over here. It only intends to report on chronological events but it somehow alerts the reader that there is a repetitive cycle of some factors which precede the major changes.”
IR’s mouth fell open and he could only nod. Miss Silenzio retrieved the weighty volume for him and wrote down h
er father’s address - a coffee and sandwich bar in the neighbouring village of Harmony Rise, which used to be known as Hell’s Hill.
Chapter 4
Sniffy pondered whether he should try to have a brief take from the new Council Leader before doing his rounds of the media, but he eventually decided against this. His present understanding of the situation was extremely simple and had the advantage of a very effective hook, so why put bait on the hook and so restrict the imagination? Let the unspecific ripples of the words ‘common sense’ do their stuff, positive and hopeful for the citizens, but deadly and devoid of respect for those in office. He merely texted his cronies at the press, TV, and radio to state that he had reliable information that Councillor Richardson was in relentless pursuit of a ‘return to common sense’ regardless of who and what would come under scrutiny. He added a note, disguised as an afterthought, that his normal courtesy of getting a take from the various official dignitaries before the news broke was to be dispensed with, as it was likely to be greeted with questions he had agreed implicitly not to answer ‘at this stage.’ This would ensure the pilot light survived to create the perfect conditions for a full and necessary blaze.
***
Enrico was juggling orders for latte, pastrami, gelati, and aqua frizzante etcetera, when IR interrupted his disorganised thought process - “Hello, I’m …..”
“Momento, per favore, take a seat and I will be at your service, subito!”
“Yes but I need to….”
“I am sorry, but unless you need to pee, in which case you are welcome to use my toilets over there. For anything else you will have to wait until I ensure my customers who already ordered are happy, due minuti, eh?”
The café had a wonderfully welcoming ambience, busy but not chaotic. Chequered red and white tablecloths begging patrons to sit, a mixture of ground roast coffee beans and herbs permeating the space, and pulsed whiffs of vanilla and caramel home-made ice cream invading the senses. There was a spare seat at one of the tables but no tables completely free, and an elderly lady beckoned him to share with her. He suddenly realised that citizens don’t normally look to share any more in these situations, they want privacy - why? He took the seat and learned that the lady was a regular, she came to enjoy the social side as much as the coffee, and she knew everyone by their first name.