Happy Birthday
Nov. 18th, 2009 11:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mymetalphantom*reappears*
Happy Birthday![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
elaby!
Just swingin' by to wish you many happy returns and all that, and to drop of a little gift for you! 'Tis a humble little HoC fic offering. Some rare introspective moments from our favourite political thug.
The distant chime of a grandfather clock went unheard. It wasn’t until the words on the page began to blur in front of his eyes that Tim Stamper looked up from his paperwork. He blinked tiredly, trying to banish the black lines before his eyes; the words from the page that seemed to have burned onto his retinas. He rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers and released a sigh. He was definitely becoming short sighted, a sure sign of middle age.
After clearing some of the image he looked out of the window beside the desk and out across the vast grounds of Francis Urquhart’s country estate. The autumnal rich reds, golds and browns that painted the scenery helped to soothe away the black and white of his paperwork and he was momentarily held captive by the beauty of the view. He wasn’t a romantic man by any stretch of the imagination, neither was he fanciful or poetic, but even he found pleasure in the aesthetic appeal of nature at her most enchanting. Besides, it was a startlingly drastic change from his usual habitat and therefore still something of a novelty for him.
Stamper didn’t come here often. Urquhart usually liked to conduct business at his constituency residence in Surrey, which was altogether more comfortable for Stamper. It was a posh house, no doubt of that, but for all its finery there was something so normal about it, about the just-vacuumed smell of it and the high ceilinged rooms and the fact that each house in the street was the same in design if not in decoration. Nothing like the country house (although ‘house’ had always seemed a major understatement). This had an odd, musty smell, not unpleasant just...unfamiliar and it was not only a uniquely built, castle-like structure, it was also the only house for a good couple of miles. You couldn’t even see any street lights; a disturbing thing for a city boy like Tim.
He thought back to the first time he had come here and he cringed. Francis had thrown a party for a cabinet minister who had retired due to ill health and, inevitably there were rumours that he was about to be kicked upstairs as well [1]. There had been whiskey. Expensive whiskey and lots of it and in spite of himself Stamper had allowed Urquhart to ply him with it until his vision split and he found it hard to form actual words. His wife had had to drive them home and she’d also had to stop on a country road while he violently rid his body of the poisonous drink. It had all been very embarrassing and if his wife wasn’t most terribly liberal [2] she might have made him sleep on the sofa for a month. The memory of that night was what had prompted his wife, when asked about staying in Hampshire this weekend, to say “not on your life, sunshine.”
Stamper didn’t like to be reminded of it himself. He recalled that he and Urquhart had talked for hours that night, in this very room, hiding away from the other guests, their voices lowered to conspiratorial whispers in the darkened study. He clearly remembered the soft amber of the table lamps and the combined smell of whiskey and Urquhart’s expensive cologne which overwhelmed him. He could remember all of that as if it had happened a few moments ago. The trouble was he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they had talked about and that thought unnerved him. He tried not to get drunk at social functions. He carefully rationed himself usually. The difference between that warm, comfortably buzzing feeling and that awful senseless incoherence could be nothing more than a drink or two more than you could handle and that night Stamper had gone hurtling over his limit. Urquhart had never mentioned what was said but it still worried him. Stamper knew what sort of a drunk he was.
His thoughts dissolved as his attention was caught by a fluttering outside the window. As he looked out he saw a blackbird on the patio slabs. It bobbed and pecked and bounced along in that birdlike staccato motion; pecking then looking up, pecking then looking up; always wary of predators even in the happiest of moments.
The female blackbird was actually brown apparently, at least that’s what Francis had told him and he had taken him at his word. Stamper had no interest in wildlife and for him one feathered, winged creature looked very much like another. Yet he liked blackbirds for some reason. Perhaps it was their simple, black elegance and the fact that they were so ordinary but their song was pleasing even to his untrained ear. And apparently, they were territorial. They found a home and a mate and they staunchly stayed put, moving at their own peril. Lessons for the whole world, perhaps?
The bird chirped happily, in spite of the constant vigilance. Pecking then looking up. It was funny how contented animals were to play their part in the world and never aspire to more. That blackbird, in its toil, would build its nest for its young, cross-pollinating as it dropped bits and pieces here and there, perfectly in sync with the world. It had no illusions about its place. It didn’t strive to make something more of itself. It didn’t look at its young chicks and think ‘I hope they grow up to be more than just simple blackbirds’. Life was so complicated for humans who yearned for something more out of life, who actually felt entitled to more. The struggle could make a man weary and he supposed he envied the blackbird’s simple life.
He was snapped out of maudlin thoughts by the heavy study door opening. The old metal handle screeched and, although it must only have been a coincidence, the blackbird flapped away. Stamper jumped too, even though he knew it had to be Urquhart.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Urquhart said as he closed the door behind him, which thudded in the still room.
It struck Stamper as funny that even when here, relaxing in his country home, Urquhart still looked smart. He still wore a shirt and tie, even though his jacket had been replaced by a cardigan. Stamper felt grossly underdressed in his charcoal jumper and black cords, and was glad that he had at least put a shirt on.
Stamper put down his pen, which he had just been idly rolling between his fingers anyway, and sat back. “I woke early, so I thought I’d finish these bits and pieces before breakfast.”
He had woken early. Ridiculously early. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper anyway but the countryside was so bloody noisy at night and even more so at the break of dawn that sleeping had seemed impossible. The gentle hum of car engines and the rumble of tyres on tarmac he could handle; even the occasional wail of police or ambulance sirens in the distance and the odd blast of music from a house or car stereo. But the constant chirping, hooting and snuffling of creatures in the country was enough to drive him crazy.
Urquhart smiled. There was something sly about the smile, as though he was mocking Stamper for his city boy gaucherie. “I thought we could go for a walk later. Walk and talk. How does that sound?”
It sounded like a horrible idea, Stamper thought as he looked out of the window at the ominous overcast sky and the sodden ground, not to mention the way the tree branches would sway heavily as a sudden icy blast of wind sped past. As beautiful as it looked he didn’t fancy walking in it. Still, Urquhart was merely obeying his strict code of courtesy by asking. It was not a request, so Stamper smiled and nodded in agreement and began to wonder whether he had packed thick enough socks.
*****
At least breakfast had been good, Stamper reminded himself as he buried his chin in his scarf and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his long winter coat. Breakfast had been very good, even though he had found his enjoyment of it hampered by the prospect of walking around the vast grounds of the Urquhart’s country estate in the middle of November after a particularly heavy downpour.
Walking and talking was something that Francis liked to do a lot, being an active man. Tim didn’t usually mind, he didn’t like to sit idle either, but there was a big difference between pacing the Commons and tramping around in the country, and Stamper found he was having some trouble. Feet used to treading the pavements of London found themselves landing too heavily on the rain-softened soil, making him sink or slip on occasion. All this while trying to keep up with the conversation was enough to make him breathless.
“I just don’t think he listened to a single word I said. He just smiled as though he were humouring some damned child!” Urquhart was in full flow by this point, striding ahead, the memory of a recent conversation making him visibly seething with rage.
“He owes everything to you, Francis, they both do,” Stamper said soothingly as he wisely side-stepped a particularly muddy patch of grass. “It’s been a tough year but the whole Party is in line. Surely they know that’s down to you?”
So it was going to be one of those conversations, Stamper thought as he began to realise why Urquhart had asked him here this weekend. Stamper, as a friend and confidant was there to serve many purposes; a sounding-board for ideas, a source of inspiration, a friendly face at the appropriate moment, even occasionally for some comic relief (with his brutal honesty and irreverence). He was also called upon, at times, to do a spot of ego massaging. Francis Urquhart, although outwardly a man of arrogance and self-assurance was prone to bouts of self-doubt, bordering on self-loathing and it was left up to those closest to him to prop him back up again. That was what was called for this weekend it seemed, although Stamper doubted that Urquhart realised it himself.
“You wouldn’t know it, the way they talk to me sometimes,” Urquhart replied, his face a hard stone mask. “Three years Tim and nothing! Not so much as a mention of promotion. I do sometimes wonder whether it’s all worthwhile.” This last part was breathy, like a sigh of resignation.
Stamper paused for a moment to catch his breath. Walking didn’t usual tire him, but the effort of trying to maintain his balance, talk and keep up with Urquhart’s purposeful striding had taken its toll. “They can’t overlook you, Francis, not after everything,” Stamper panted, his breath fogging before him in the cold autumn air. Urquhart stopped too and turned to Stamper. “You know the PM, she can be a bitch but she always rewards her friends.”
“We must never forget that most people’s first concern is themselves,” Urquhart declared. His voice had an edge to it, something which was always there when he was annoyed and was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide it. “We must not allow ourselves the luxury of believing in out-dated ideas like loyalty and camaraderie.”
Stamper leaned back against a tree behind him, grateful for the balance it offered him, so he no longer had to rely on his own centre of gravity. Despite his natural agility he realised that he was not really cut out for walking in the country; a fact that he would have to remember whenever his wife talked of buying a house in some rural corner. That and noise at night of course.
“I don’t think loyalty is out-dated,” Stamper said as he caught his breath finally.
“Yes, I thought you might feel that way,” Urquhart replied as he cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing in gentle scrutiny. “There have been indications.”
Stamper thought there might be some hidden meaning behind Urquhart’s words but, if there was, it was very well hidden. He shrugged. “Everyone knows that those who survive are the ones who hunt in packs.”
Urquhart raised an eyebrow. “Do you think we should go hunting, Tim?”
Stamper paused and thought carefully for the moment, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. He did love a good fight, but he wasn’t acting as ‘ideas man’ this weekend and one wrong word from him could ruin everything. “Do you want to go hunting, Francis?” He asked cautiously, hoping to god that he meant politically and not literally. He was fairly good at shooting...as long as the targets were still. But politically speaking he had excellent aim.
Urquhart looked at him for a moment and chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Stamper found that he was holding his breath for some reason as he awaited the answer, his heart thumping rather vigorously in his chest.
In the end, Urquhart just grinned, a cunning, mischievous grin then turned away and walked on. Stamper, after pausing a few moments more to regain balance and to ponder the meaning of Urquhart’s smile, followed him.
*****
Stamper changed out of his wet clothes as soon as they got back from their walk, eager to be back downstairs as soon as physically possible. It would be dinnertime soon and he couldn’t remember a time when he had been hungrier in his life. Walking always sharpened the appetite and he had walked more in one morning/afternoon than he had done in the past few years put together.
Also, although he ached from the exertion he was also filled with a curious energy and he felt very much up to the challenge of asking Urquhart what he had meant with all that talk of loyalty and hunting. Something was stirring inside Francis Urquhart. Discontent maybe. He was brilliant but so bloody cautious that it made Stamper want to shout ‘why don’t you just take what we all know you want, for god’s sake!’
He slipped on a new jumper, a navy blue one that was old now and was starting to bobble in places. He didn’t put on a shirt this time, preferring the feel of the wool against his skin. He loved this jumper. His wife had bought it for him years ago, back when they had been pretty poor and he loved it because it reminded him of how far he had come. Well, that and the fact that after all these years it still fitted him perfectly. His own distinct oddness didn’t allow him much vanity, but he was at least pleased with the negligible affect that the aging process was having on him. Not everyone could say the same.
After changing he went downstairs in search of Urquhart, hoping to talk to him before dinner. As he walked down the corridor and turned a corner he heard voices coming from the living room; Francis and Elizabeth in conversation. He was about to open the door when words from Elizabeth Urquhart stopped him in his tracks.
“Don’t be naive Francis, it’s always about sex. Everything in life is,” she said with great authority.
Now, it may be vulgar but there was something about the word ‘sex’ that got everyone’s attention, and, although he was sure he shouldn’t listen and wasn’t absolutely positive that he even wanted to either, he stayed very still and focused his attention on the conversation coming from behind the heavy oak door.
Urquhart laughed. “Come now, I really don’t think he’s that sort of chap,” he answered, although the words weren’t spoken with much conviction.
“I don’t think he’s even sure what sort of chap he is,” Elizabeth replied. “Some things just aren’t as black and white as we’d all like them to be.”
Stamper found that his mouth had gone completely dry and his heart was fluttering wildly, hindering his attempts to remain still and silent. What the hell were they talking about?
“You should get him on the subject of women one day,” Urquhart said. “That might make things a little more black and white in your mind.”
Stamper heard Elizabeth hum thoughtfully before she spoke again. “Well, maybe it’s just you then.”
Whatever it was, or whoever it was she was referring to, that last sentence seemed to render Urquhart speechless and the next thing Stamper heard was their approaching footsteps.
His heart rate suddenly picked up a notch and, thanks to some freak act of nature that had endowed him with a small amount of grace and agility, he managed the run silently back round the corner before they got to the door and caught him spying on them.
Trying his best to look natural as he rounded the corner again he feigned surprise at being confronted by both Urquharts leaving the living room. Elizabeth Urquhart was in her coat and was carry her handbag, clearly just about to head out.
“Ah, Tim,” Urquhart greeted, and if Stamper wasn’t mistaken he thought he saw a slighting pinking of the older man’s cheeks as he locked eyes with him. “Er, Elizabeth has been called away. Her mother isn’t very well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Stamper said politely. Of course, he didn’t really care about the health of some old woman he had never met, but there was just another silly human convention.
Elizabeth took the gesture well though and graced him with a smile before heading towards the door. Once she opened it she turned back to Urquhart and kissed him on the cheek. “Be good,” she joked, “and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” With those last words she seemed to look Stamper up and down before smiling at him once more in the most unnerving fashion.
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Stamper began to wonder exactly what that order left them with. On reflection he concluded that he really didn’t put anything past Mrs Urquhart. He admired that in a way, although he was glad that he wasn’t married to her.
He didn’t miss the wink that she gave Urquhart before she headed off either. There was a wealth of meaning in that wink and for the first time since they had met nearly twenty years ago, Stamper was actually feeling nervous about being alone with Urquhart.
Stamper shook his head. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew that. He had nothing to fear from Urquhart, did he? Well, he might give him the elbow, but not if Stamper played by the rules and stuck to his role as ‘ego booster’.
With the door closed Urquhart turned back to him with a smile. Stamper smiled back but felt all of his earlier confidence and energy fading away. No, he would not be asking Urquhart any probing questions in the near future.
*****
Despite earlier feelings of trepidation, Stamper enjoyed dinner and he and Urquhart had talked on lighter topics; the recent war [3], the boost in Tory popularity, and Urquhart had even allowed Stamper to talk a little bit about football as well. A rare treat indeed.
The food had been excellent as well, as had the wine. He was no connoisseur of course, but he knew what he liked and funnily, no matter how much he drank his glass always seemed to be full.
With dinner over they both settled down in the living room, where Stamper began to feel the full effects of the day. He yawned. The sun had long since gone down and the world outside the window was practically black. The morning and afternoon spent in the bracing fresh air, walking the length and breadth of the estate, talking of this and that (well, Urquhart had talked; Stamper had mainly listened) had left Stamper feeling absolutely knackered. His calf and thigh muscles ached, chiefly from the strain of trying to keep himself upright whilst walking through slippery mud. There was an art to walking in the country and Stamper found that he just didn’t have it. For that he was eternally grateful.
The November air had bitten at his cheeks and swept through his lungs, clearing away the city pollution, causing him to cough like a forty-a-day man. Now he was in the comforting warmth of the main living room, the curtains drawn to shut out the blackness, the flickering orange flames in the fireplace casting dancing shadows around the room. He was sat slumped on the settee, bathed in the burnt yellow glow from the dim lamp beside him; the warmth and the muted lighting dulling his senses, ready for sleep.
His muscles twitched as they relaxed and a heavy drowsiness swept over him. He was worn out, well fed and at that exact moment Urquhart was handing him his third glass of whiskey. Despite the fact that he had promised himself (not to mention his wife) that he wouldn’t drink too much, he dutifully took the drink. It was just part of his job this weekend. Keep the boss happy.
Stamper had long ago stopped worrying whether his connection to Urquhart was business or personal. Somewhere along the line their backbencher friendship had been blurred by their altered roles of boss and deputy. Socially Urquhart had always been above him, but now he was actually his superior politically as well. It had skewed the normal dynamic of friendship and now for Stamper to be too relaxed and unguarded around Urquhart was tinged with danger. If he was being honest with himself though, he wasn’t averse to the danger.
Urquhart joined him and the two of them sat silently, watching as the flames rose and fell, lapping the stone of the fireplace, the room filled only with the crackling sound of the firewood snapping in the heat and the faint sound of nature outside the window.
Warm now, on the outside due to the fire, on the inside due to the alcohol, Stamper found himself falling into that familiar, comfortable numbness.
“I’ve been thinking about the future, Tim,” Urquhart said, his tone low in the quiet room. Urquhart’s voice was one that you felt before you heard, the rumble of it sending vibrations through your chest. It made Stamper’s heart flutter a little. Not much though, he was too tired for that.
“Thinking about the future?” he asked, his words beginning to slur. “Or worrying about the future?” It was perhaps a cheeky thing to say, but he’d drunk enough to make his tongue a little looser than usual.
There was a moment of silence before Urquhart released a thoughtful hum. “I can’t help but wonder,” he said in lieu of an answer, his voice becoming more wistful, “what the future holds for us, Tim.”
Stamper felt warmth spread through his chest at that word, “us”. He often questioned whether Urquhart’s growing popularity would propel him through the ranks of the Party, leaving his old friend Stamper behind as the obscure man in the shadows, the one who people knew but didn’t really notice until he was standing right in front them. To be included in Urquhart’s anxieties about the future seemed to settle any doubts that Stamper had about his own importance.
“What do you think?” Urquhart asked, turning to Stamper, topping up his drink. “Come, my council’s consistory, what say you?”
“I think we’re doing all right,” Tim answered. He wished that he had been more articulate, said something a little more profound perhaps, maybe if he could remember where he had heard that phrase “council’s consistory” [4], but he was just too drowsy and, although he wasn’t really aware of it, a little bit too drunk as well. He continued to drink from the glass in his hand, his tongue now numb and no longer tasting the sharpness of the whiskey. This only served to make him drink it faster and a little more enthusiastically. Getting drunk, in principle, was a bad idea, but once that idea is planted the body seems to drive headlong into the oblivion. Humans are strange creatures.
“Sometimes,” Urquhart started, whilst he refilled Stamper’s empty glass, “I feel like I’m charging ahead. I’m doing so well then something...someone stands in my way. The PM I’m sure is very grateful, Tim, but she’s not going to promote me, not while she still needs me where I am. Everyone’s out for themselves, there seems to be no fair play, no sportsmanship; just a mad struggle, everyone grasping out for power.”
Urquhart had that look about him again. Like something from a Shakespeare play. He was prone to lengthy monologues and Stamper was happy to just listen, even if he didn’t always understand what he was saying. That didn’t matter. One didn’t need to understand Henry V’s battle cry to appreciate the sentiment and to feel that pinch of ancient pride. He didn’t need to fully understand Urquhart’s diatribes to feel a connection.
“You know what I think?” he finally said after he downed the rest of his drink. Urquhart turned back to him expectantly, his usually bright blue eyes almost totally black now in the dimly lit room. “Fuck ‘em.” Urquhart blinked in surprise and Stamper was unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face, even though he knew that his friend’s troubles were nothing to make fun of. Fortunately Urquhart saw the humour and soon they were both chuckling softly.
“Oh, Tim,” Urquhart said between bouts of laughter. “You have such a poetic nature,” he continued in gentle mockery, Patting Stamper nonchalantly on the knee. Stamper ignored the tiny lightning bolts of sensation that shot up his leg.
“I’m serious,” Stamper retorted, the lazy smile still gracing his lips. “Seriously, Francis, fuck ‘em all. I think you’ve been far too patient with that lot. You could run rings ‘round them, you know that.” He hardly recognised his own voice. It sounded muffled and distant, not to mention slurred and he was also concerned that he was starting to sound a little too ‘Essex’ for Urquhart’s liking. He was exhausted now, and the laughter had made him wearier and he wasn’t as good at covering his accent when he was tired (or drunk).
“It’s very nice of you to say, Tim,” Urquhart started but was cut off by Stamper.
“Oh come on, they’re spineless and self-serving, the lot of ‘em. Look at how many files we’ve got in the office, detailing all their petty, sordid little problems.” A part of Stamper knew that he was bordering on insubordination but that sensible part was being drowned out.
“Well,” Urquhart replied, looking intently at Stamper, their eyes locked, “we all have our weaknesses, Tim.” The voice was soft, mellifluous. Intimate. Stamper swallowed, his mouth dry all of a sudden and he found himself unable to look away from Urquhart. As drained as he was, his heart had already begun to pick up pace, which just served to make him more tired. He felt hot, although he couldn’t work out whether it was from the fire or the alcohol or from the sudden rushing of blood. Wherever it was from the heat seemed to roll down his spine and spread out once it got to the base, arousing him in a light, lazy fashion. His mind went back to the conversation he had overheard earlier and an alarm should have been set off in his brain but, unfortunately the alcohol had disabled his usually brilliant defence systems and he blindly carried on.
“Yes, but some of us aren’t stupid enough to let them get in the way of our work,” Stamper replied in a voice that could barely even qualify as a whisper.
Urquhart smiled gently. “You’re right. Some of us aren’t,” he agreed and in a move that shocked Stamper, he raised his hand and cupped the side of his face affectionately. Stamper found his mind filled thoughts he had never before entertained and he found himself imaging things he would otherwise have found repulsive; inappropriate, disgustingly provocative images. The sudden confusing onslaught of emotion made Stamper’s eyes flicker shut, which was a big mistake in the present circumstances. As his eyelids closed and his face turned in to the comforting, soft flesh of Urquhart’s palm Stamper’s body got completely the wrong idea and tiredness won him over. Without really being aware of it Tim Stamper found himself drifting unwillingly into unconsciousness.
*****
[1] Being made a Lord.
[2] Liberal according to Stamper...which could be anything just to the left of Mussolini!
[3] I do find it funny that Urquhart and Stamper would think of the Falklands War as a "lighter" topic. Funny in a really depressing way!
[4] Oh,Buckingham Stamper...if you could remember where that quote was from you'd fun for the hills!!
*vanishes again*
Happy Birthday
elaby!Just swingin' by to wish you many happy returns and all that, and to drop of a little gift for you! 'Tis a humble little HoC fic offering. Some rare introspective moments from our favourite political thug.
The distant chime of a grandfather clock went unheard. It wasn’t until the words on the page began to blur in front of his eyes that Tim Stamper looked up from his paperwork. He blinked tiredly, trying to banish the black lines before his eyes; the words from the page that seemed to have burned onto his retinas. He rubbed his eyes with the pads of his fingers and released a sigh. He was definitely becoming short sighted, a sure sign of middle age.
After clearing some of the image he looked out of the window beside the desk and out across the vast grounds of Francis Urquhart’s country estate. The autumnal rich reds, golds and browns that painted the scenery helped to soothe away the black and white of his paperwork and he was momentarily held captive by the beauty of the view. He wasn’t a romantic man by any stretch of the imagination, neither was he fanciful or poetic, but even he found pleasure in the aesthetic appeal of nature at her most enchanting. Besides, it was a startlingly drastic change from his usual habitat and therefore still something of a novelty for him.
Stamper didn’t come here often. Urquhart usually liked to conduct business at his constituency residence in Surrey, which was altogether more comfortable for Stamper. It was a posh house, no doubt of that, but for all its finery there was something so normal about it, about the just-vacuumed smell of it and the high ceilinged rooms and the fact that each house in the street was the same in design if not in decoration. Nothing like the country house (although ‘house’ had always seemed a major understatement). This had an odd, musty smell, not unpleasant just...unfamiliar and it was not only a uniquely built, castle-like structure, it was also the only house for a good couple of miles. You couldn’t even see any street lights; a disturbing thing for a city boy like Tim.
He thought back to the first time he had come here and he cringed. Francis had thrown a party for a cabinet minister who had retired due to ill health and, inevitably there were rumours that he was about to be kicked upstairs as well [1]. There had been whiskey. Expensive whiskey and lots of it and in spite of himself Stamper had allowed Urquhart to ply him with it until his vision split and he found it hard to form actual words. His wife had had to drive them home and she’d also had to stop on a country road while he violently rid his body of the poisonous drink. It had all been very embarrassing and if his wife wasn’t most terribly liberal [2] she might have made him sleep on the sofa for a month. The memory of that night was what had prompted his wife, when asked about staying in Hampshire this weekend, to say “not on your life, sunshine.”
Stamper didn’t like to be reminded of it himself. He recalled that he and Urquhart had talked for hours that night, in this very room, hiding away from the other guests, their voices lowered to conspiratorial whispers in the darkened study. He clearly remembered the soft amber of the table lamps and the combined smell of whiskey and Urquhart’s expensive cologne which overwhelmed him. He could remember all of that as if it had happened a few moments ago. The trouble was he couldn’t for the life of him remember what they had talked about and that thought unnerved him. He tried not to get drunk at social functions. He carefully rationed himself usually. The difference between that warm, comfortably buzzing feeling and that awful senseless incoherence could be nothing more than a drink or two more than you could handle and that night Stamper had gone hurtling over his limit. Urquhart had never mentioned what was said but it still worried him. Stamper knew what sort of a drunk he was.
His thoughts dissolved as his attention was caught by a fluttering outside the window. As he looked out he saw a blackbird on the patio slabs. It bobbed and pecked and bounced along in that birdlike staccato motion; pecking then looking up, pecking then looking up; always wary of predators even in the happiest of moments.
The female blackbird was actually brown apparently, at least that’s what Francis had told him and he had taken him at his word. Stamper had no interest in wildlife and for him one feathered, winged creature looked very much like another. Yet he liked blackbirds for some reason. Perhaps it was their simple, black elegance and the fact that they were so ordinary but their song was pleasing even to his untrained ear. And apparently, they were territorial. They found a home and a mate and they staunchly stayed put, moving at their own peril. Lessons for the whole world, perhaps?
The bird chirped happily, in spite of the constant vigilance. Pecking then looking up. It was funny how contented animals were to play their part in the world and never aspire to more. That blackbird, in its toil, would build its nest for its young, cross-pollinating as it dropped bits and pieces here and there, perfectly in sync with the world. It had no illusions about its place. It didn’t strive to make something more of itself. It didn’t look at its young chicks and think ‘I hope they grow up to be more than just simple blackbirds’. Life was so complicated for humans who yearned for something more out of life, who actually felt entitled to more. The struggle could make a man weary and he supposed he envied the blackbird’s simple life.
He was snapped out of maudlin thoughts by the heavy study door opening. The old metal handle screeched and, although it must only have been a coincidence, the blackbird flapped away. Stamper jumped too, even though he knew it had to be Urquhart.
“Thought I’d find you here,” Urquhart said as he closed the door behind him, which thudded in the still room.
It struck Stamper as funny that even when here, relaxing in his country home, Urquhart still looked smart. He still wore a shirt and tie, even though his jacket had been replaced by a cardigan. Stamper felt grossly underdressed in his charcoal jumper and black cords, and was glad that he had at least put a shirt on.
Stamper put down his pen, which he had just been idly rolling between his fingers anyway, and sat back. “I woke early, so I thought I’d finish these bits and pieces before breakfast.”
He had woken early. Ridiculously early. He wasn’t a heavy sleeper anyway but the countryside was so bloody noisy at night and even more so at the break of dawn that sleeping had seemed impossible. The gentle hum of car engines and the rumble of tyres on tarmac he could handle; even the occasional wail of police or ambulance sirens in the distance and the odd blast of music from a house or car stereo. But the constant chirping, hooting and snuffling of creatures in the country was enough to drive him crazy.
Urquhart smiled. There was something sly about the smile, as though he was mocking Stamper for his city boy gaucherie. “I thought we could go for a walk later. Walk and talk. How does that sound?”
It sounded like a horrible idea, Stamper thought as he looked out of the window at the ominous overcast sky and the sodden ground, not to mention the way the tree branches would sway heavily as a sudden icy blast of wind sped past. As beautiful as it looked he didn’t fancy walking in it. Still, Urquhart was merely obeying his strict code of courtesy by asking. It was not a request, so Stamper smiled and nodded in agreement and began to wonder whether he had packed thick enough socks.
*****
At least breakfast had been good, Stamper reminded himself as he buried his chin in his scarf and shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his long winter coat. Breakfast had been very good, even though he had found his enjoyment of it hampered by the prospect of walking around the vast grounds of the Urquhart’s country estate in the middle of November after a particularly heavy downpour.
Walking and talking was something that Francis liked to do a lot, being an active man. Tim didn’t usually mind, he didn’t like to sit idle either, but there was a big difference between pacing the Commons and tramping around in the country, and Stamper found he was having some trouble. Feet used to treading the pavements of London found themselves landing too heavily on the rain-softened soil, making him sink or slip on occasion. All this while trying to keep up with the conversation was enough to make him breathless.
“I just don’t think he listened to a single word I said. He just smiled as though he were humouring some damned child!” Urquhart was in full flow by this point, striding ahead, the memory of a recent conversation making him visibly seething with rage.
“He owes everything to you, Francis, they both do,” Stamper said soothingly as he wisely side-stepped a particularly muddy patch of grass. “It’s been a tough year but the whole Party is in line. Surely they know that’s down to you?”
So it was going to be one of those conversations, Stamper thought as he began to realise why Urquhart had asked him here this weekend. Stamper, as a friend and confidant was there to serve many purposes; a sounding-board for ideas, a source of inspiration, a friendly face at the appropriate moment, even occasionally for some comic relief (with his brutal honesty and irreverence). He was also called upon, at times, to do a spot of ego massaging. Francis Urquhart, although outwardly a man of arrogance and self-assurance was prone to bouts of self-doubt, bordering on self-loathing and it was left up to those closest to him to prop him back up again. That was what was called for this weekend it seemed, although Stamper doubted that Urquhart realised it himself.
“You wouldn’t know it, the way they talk to me sometimes,” Urquhart replied, his face a hard stone mask. “Three years Tim and nothing! Not so much as a mention of promotion. I do sometimes wonder whether it’s all worthwhile.” This last part was breathy, like a sigh of resignation.
Stamper paused for a moment to catch his breath. Walking didn’t usual tire him, but the effort of trying to maintain his balance, talk and keep up with Urquhart’s purposeful striding had taken its toll. “They can’t overlook you, Francis, not after everything,” Stamper panted, his breath fogging before him in the cold autumn air. Urquhart stopped too and turned to Stamper. “You know the PM, she can be a bitch but she always rewards her friends.”
“We must never forget that most people’s first concern is themselves,” Urquhart declared. His voice had an edge to it, something which was always there when he was annoyed and was trying, unsuccessfully, to hide it. “We must not allow ourselves the luxury of believing in out-dated ideas like loyalty and camaraderie.”
Stamper leaned back against a tree behind him, grateful for the balance it offered him, so he no longer had to rely on his own centre of gravity. Despite his natural agility he realised that he was not really cut out for walking in the country; a fact that he would have to remember whenever his wife talked of buying a house in some rural corner. That and noise at night of course.
“I don’t think loyalty is out-dated,” Stamper said as he caught his breath finally.
“Yes, I thought you might feel that way,” Urquhart replied as he cocked his head to one side, his eyes narrowing in gentle scrutiny. “There have been indications.”
Stamper thought there might be some hidden meaning behind Urquhart’s words but, if there was, it was very well hidden. He shrugged. “Everyone knows that those who survive are the ones who hunt in packs.”
Urquhart raised an eyebrow. “Do you think we should go hunting, Tim?”
Stamper paused and thought carefully for the moment, suddenly unsure of how to proceed. He did love a good fight, but he wasn’t acting as ‘ideas man’ this weekend and one wrong word from him could ruin everything. “Do you want to go hunting, Francis?” He asked cautiously, hoping to god that he meant politically and not literally. He was fairly good at shooting...as long as the targets were still. But politically speaking he had excellent aim.
Urquhart looked at him for a moment and chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Stamper found that he was holding his breath for some reason as he awaited the answer, his heart thumping rather vigorously in his chest.
In the end, Urquhart just grinned, a cunning, mischievous grin then turned away and walked on. Stamper, after pausing a few moments more to regain balance and to ponder the meaning of Urquhart’s smile, followed him.
*****
Stamper changed out of his wet clothes as soon as they got back from their walk, eager to be back downstairs as soon as physically possible. It would be dinnertime soon and he couldn’t remember a time when he had been hungrier in his life. Walking always sharpened the appetite and he had walked more in one morning/afternoon than he had done in the past few years put together.
Also, although he ached from the exertion he was also filled with a curious energy and he felt very much up to the challenge of asking Urquhart what he had meant with all that talk of loyalty and hunting. Something was stirring inside Francis Urquhart. Discontent maybe. He was brilliant but so bloody cautious that it made Stamper want to shout ‘why don’t you just take what we all know you want, for god’s sake!’
He slipped on a new jumper, a navy blue one that was old now and was starting to bobble in places. He didn’t put on a shirt this time, preferring the feel of the wool against his skin. He loved this jumper. His wife had bought it for him years ago, back when they had been pretty poor and he loved it because it reminded him of how far he had come. Well, that and the fact that after all these years it still fitted him perfectly. His own distinct oddness didn’t allow him much vanity, but he was at least pleased with the negligible affect that the aging process was having on him. Not everyone could say the same.
After changing he went downstairs in search of Urquhart, hoping to talk to him before dinner. As he walked down the corridor and turned a corner he heard voices coming from the living room; Francis and Elizabeth in conversation. He was about to open the door when words from Elizabeth Urquhart stopped him in his tracks.
“Don’t be naive Francis, it’s always about sex. Everything in life is,” she said with great authority.
Now, it may be vulgar but there was something about the word ‘sex’ that got everyone’s attention, and, although he was sure he shouldn’t listen and wasn’t absolutely positive that he even wanted to either, he stayed very still and focused his attention on the conversation coming from behind the heavy oak door.
Urquhart laughed. “Come now, I really don’t think he’s that sort of chap,” he answered, although the words weren’t spoken with much conviction.
“I don’t think he’s even sure what sort of chap he is,” Elizabeth replied. “Some things just aren’t as black and white as we’d all like them to be.”
Stamper found that his mouth had gone completely dry and his heart was fluttering wildly, hindering his attempts to remain still and silent. What the hell were they talking about?
“You should get him on the subject of women one day,” Urquhart said. “That might make things a little more black and white in your mind.”
Stamper heard Elizabeth hum thoughtfully before she spoke again. “Well, maybe it’s just you then.”
Whatever it was, or whoever it was she was referring to, that last sentence seemed to render Urquhart speechless and the next thing Stamper heard was their approaching footsteps.
His heart rate suddenly picked up a notch and, thanks to some freak act of nature that had endowed him with a small amount of grace and agility, he managed the run silently back round the corner before they got to the door and caught him spying on them.
Trying his best to look natural as he rounded the corner again he feigned surprise at being confronted by both Urquharts leaving the living room. Elizabeth Urquhart was in her coat and was carry her handbag, clearly just about to head out.
“Ah, Tim,” Urquhart greeted, and if Stamper wasn’t mistaken he thought he saw a slighting pinking of the older man’s cheeks as he locked eyes with him. “Er, Elizabeth has been called away. Her mother isn’t very well.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” Stamper said politely. Of course, he didn’t really care about the health of some old woman he had never met, but there was just another silly human convention.
Elizabeth took the gesture well though and graced him with a smile before heading towards the door. Once she opened it she turned back to Urquhart and kissed him on the cheek. “Be good,” she joked, “and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” With those last words she seemed to look Stamper up and down before smiling at him once more in the most unnerving fashion.
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do. Stamper began to wonder exactly what that order left them with. On reflection he concluded that he really didn’t put anything past Mrs Urquhart. He admired that in a way, although he was glad that he wasn’t married to her.
He didn’t miss the wink that she gave Urquhart before she headed off either. There was a wealth of meaning in that wink and for the first time since they had met nearly twenty years ago, Stamper was actually feeling nervous about being alone with Urquhart.
Stamper shook his head. It was a ridiculous notion, he knew that. He had nothing to fear from Urquhart, did he? Well, he might give him the elbow, but not if Stamper played by the rules and stuck to his role as ‘ego booster’.
With the door closed Urquhart turned back to him with a smile. Stamper smiled back but felt all of his earlier confidence and energy fading away. No, he would not be asking Urquhart any probing questions in the near future.
*****
Despite earlier feelings of trepidation, Stamper enjoyed dinner and he and Urquhart had talked on lighter topics; the recent war [3], the boost in Tory popularity, and Urquhart had even allowed Stamper to talk a little bit about football as well. A rare treat indeed.
The food had been excellent as well, as had the wine. He was no connoisseur of course, but he knew what he liked and funnily, no matter how much he drank his glass always seemed to be full.
With dinner over they both settled down in the living room, where Stamper began to feel the full effects of the day. He yawned. The sun had long since gone down and the world outside the window was practically black. The morning and afternoon spent in the bracing fresh air, walking the length and breadth of the estate, talking of this and that (well, Urquhart had talked; Stamper had mainly listened) had left Stamper feeling absolutely knackered. His calf and thigh muscles ached, chiefly from the strain of trying to keep himself upright whilst walking through slippery mud. There was an art to walking in the country and Stamper found that he just didn’t have it. For that he was eternally grateful.
The November air had bitten at his cheeks and swept through his lungs, clearing away the city pollution, causing him to cough like a forty-a-day man. Now he was in the comforting warmth of the main living room, the curtains drawn to shut out the blackness, the flickering orange flames in the fireplace casting dancing shadows around the room. He was sat slumped on the settee, bathed in the burnt yellow glow from the dim lamp beside him; the warmth and the muted lighting dulling his senses, ready for sleep.
His muscles twitched as they relaxed and a heavy drowsiness swept over him. He was worn out, well fed and at that exact moment Urquhart was handing him his third glass of whiskey. Despite the fact that he had promised himself (not to mention his wife) that he wouldn’t drink too much, he dutifully took the drink. It was just part of his job this weekend. Keep the boss happy.
Stamper had long ago stopped worrying whether his connection to Urquhart was business or personal. Somewhere along the line their backbencher friendship had been blurred by their altered roles of boss and deputy. Socially Urquhart had always been above him, but now he was actually his superior politically as well. It had skewed the normal dynamic of friendship and now for Stamper to be too relaxed and unguarded around Urquhart was tinged with danger. If he was being honest with himself though, he wasn’t averse to the danger.
Urquhart joined him and the two of them sat silently, watching as the flames rose and fell, lapping the stone of the fireplace, the room filled only with the crackling sound of the firewood snapping in the heat and the faint sound of nature outside the window.
Warm now, on the outside due to the fire, on the inside due to the alcohol, Stamper found himself falling into that familiar, comfortable numbness.
“I’ve been thinking about the future, Tim,” Urquhart said, his tone low in the quiet room. Urquhart’s voice was one that you felt before you heard, the rumble of it sending vibrations through your chest. It made Stamper’s heart flutter a little. Not much though, he was too tired for that.
“Thinking about the future?” he asked, his words beginning to slur. “Or worrying about the future?” It was perhaps a cheeky thing to say, but he’d drunk enough to make his tongue a little looser than usual.
There was a moment of silence before Urquhart released a thoughtful hum. “I can’t help but wonder,” he said in lieu of an answer, his voice becoming more wistful, “what the future holds for us, Tim.”
Stamper felt warmth spread through his chest at that word, “us”. He often questioned whether Urquhart’s growing popularity would propel him through the ranks of the Party, leaving his old friend Stamper behind as the obscure man in the shadows, the one who people knew but didn’t really notice until he was standing right in front them. To be included in Urquhart’s anxieties about the future seemed to settle any doubts that Stamper had about his own importance.
“What do you think?” Urquhart asked, turning to Stamper, topping up his drink. “Come, my council’s consistory, what say you?”
“I think we’re doing all right,” Tim answered. He wished that he had been more articulate, said something a little more profound perhaps, maybe if he could remember where he had heard that phrase “council’s consistory” [4], but he was just too drowsy and, although he wasn’t really aware of it, a little bit too drunk as well. He continued to drink from the glass in his hand, his tongue now numb and no longer tasting the sharpness of the whiskey. This only served to make him drink it faster and a little more enthusiastically. Getting drunk, in principle, was a bad idea, but once that idea is planted the body seems to drive headlong into the oblivion. Humans are strange creatures.
“Sometimes,” Urquhart started, whilst he refilled Stamper’s empty glass, “I feel like I’m charging ahead. I’m doing so well then something...someone stands in my way. The PM I’m sure is very grateful, Tim, but she’s not going to promote me, not while she still needs me where I am. Everyone’s out for themselves, there seems to be no fair play, no sportsmanship; just a mad struggle, everyone grasping out for power.”
Urquhart had that look about him again. Like something from a Shakespeare play. He was prone to lengthy monologues and Stamper was happy to just listen, even if he didn’t always understand what he was saying. That didn’t matter. One didn’t need to understand Henry V’s battle cry to appreciate the sentiment and to feel that pinch of ancient pride. He didn’t need to fully understand Urquhart’s diatribes to feel a connection.
“You know what I think?” he finally said after he downed the rest of his drink. Urquhart turned back to him expectantly, his usually bright blue eyes almost totally black now in the dimly lit room. “Fuck ‘em.” Urquhart blinked in surprise and Stamper was unable to stop the grin from spreading across his face, even though he knew that his friend’s troubles were nothing to make fun of. Fortunately Urquhart saw the humour and soon they were both chuckling softly.
“Oh, Tim,” Urquhart said between bouts of laughter. “You have such a poetic nature,” he continued in gentle mockery, Patting Stamper nonchalantly on the knee. Stamper ignored the tiny lightning bolts of sensation that shot up his leg.
“I’m serious,” Stamper retorted, the lazy smile still gracing his lips. “Seriously, Francis, fuck ‘em all. I think you’ve been far too patient with that lot. You could run rings ‘round them, you know that.” He hardly recognised his own voice. It sounded muffled and distant, not to mention slurred and he was also concerned that he was starting to sound a little too ‘Essex’ for Urquhart’s liking. He was exhausted now, and the laughter had made him wearier and he wasn’t as good at covering his accent when he was tired (or drunk).
“It’s very nice of you to say, Tim,” Urquhart started but was cut off by Stamper.
“Oh come on, they’re spineless and self-serving, the lot of ‘em. Look at how many files we’ve got in the office, detailing all their petty, sordid little problems.” A part of Stamper knew that he was bordering on insubordination but that sensible part was being drowned out.
“Well,” Urquhart replied, looking intently at Stamper, their eyes locked, “we all have our weaknesses, Tim.” The voice was soft, mellifluous. Intimate. Stamper swallowed, his mouth dry all of a sudden and he found himself unable to look away from Urquhart. As drained as he was, his heart had already begun to pick up pace, which just served to make him more tired. He felt hot, although he couldn’t work out whether it was from the fire or the alcohol or from the sudden rushing of blood. Wherever it was from the heat seemed to roll down his spine and spread out once it got to the base, arousing him in a light, lazy fashion. His mind went back to the conversation he had overheard earlier and an alarm should have been set off in his brain but, unfortunately the alcohol had disabled his usually brilliant defence systems and he blindly carried on.
“Yes, but some of us aren’t stupid enough to let them get in the way of our work,” Stamper replied in a voice that could barely even qualify as a whisper.
Urquhart smiled gently. “You’re right. Some of us aren’t,” he agreed and in a move that shocked Stamper, he raised his hand and cupped the side of his face affectionately. Stamper found his mind filled thoughts he had never before entertained and he found himself imaging things he would otherwise have found repulsive; inappropriate, disgustingly provocative images. The sudden confusing onslaught of emotion made Stamper’s eyes flicker shut, which was a big mistake in the present circumstances. As his eyelids closed and his face turned in to the comforting, soft flesh of Urquhart’s palm Stamper’s body got completely the wrong idea and tiredness won him over. Without really being aware of it Tim Stamper found himself drifting unwillingly into unconsciousness.
*****
[1] Being made a Lord.
[2] Liberal according to Stamper...which could be anything just to the left of Mussolini!
[3] I do find it funny that Urquhart and Stamper would think of the Falklands War as a "lighter" topic. Funny in a really depressing way!
[4] Oh,
*vanishes again*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-18 11:45 pm (UTC)“I don’t think loyalty is out-dated,” Stamper said as he caught his breath finally.
*wibbles* I find myself very glad that Tim fell asleep here. Urquhart can hurt him effectively enough without any more ammunition, thank you. And I think that having to face the extent of his own desires might actually break the poor thing. *is protective of her Stamper*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 12:17 pm (UTC)You know, Tim really isn't ready to face his own desires here, poor thing. I'm not sure he's even really aware that Francis and Elizabeth were talking about him. Part of his mind knows but he's too in denial to listen to it.
Having Tim fall asleep was the only way to preserve his sanity ;)
P.S. you can hug him while he's still drunk (being the dumb, over-emotional drunk that he is) but when he has a hangover...*shudders*
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 02:17 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 12:20 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 02:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 03:22 pm (UTC)Wanting the smut is not that terrible ;)
And of course, I would agree with you on most occasions, but not here. I think with Tim being in that state (plus being totally unaware of his own feelings) I would have crossed the line from dubious consent to borderine date rape. Not sexy, really.
Besides I was going for the idea that Urquhart was more interested in seeing whether Elizabeth was right, rather than an actual seduction. That would come much later ;)
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 04:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-19 02:44 am (UTC)November 1982 is when I was born. *gets an incredible amount of joy out of this*
The memory of that night was what had prompted his wife, when asked about staying in Hampshire this weekend, to say “not on your life, sunshine.”
*cracks up* I'm beginning to like Stamper's wife, weirdly enough XD
Stamper felt grossly underdressed in his charcoal jumper and black cords, and was glad that he had at least put a shirt on.
*swoons a little bit at the very idea* I LOVE the image of Stamper dressed in not-a-suit!
Awww, city boy Stamper feels so out-of-place in the country, and you write him SO incredibly well. It brings so much more to his character to read things like this that delve into him and his viewpoint on the world. *adores*
He was also called upon, at times, to do a spot of ego massaging.
Oh, man, this is PERFECT. It's so true. Urquhart really seems like the type to need someone he can trust to bolster his ego (he'd never allow other people to affect him like that).
“We must not allow ourselves the luxury of believing in out-dated ideas like loyalty and camaraderie.”
Ooh. Oh, Urquhart. This is just a little vulnerable under the snarky cynicism.
“There have been indications.”
*perks* Hmm! And eep, Urquhart is so...! Himself. Secretive and manipulative and always planning.
“Don’t be naive Francis, it’s always about sex. Everything in life is,” she said with great authority.
ELIZABETH. I can't help loving her!
Stamper heard Elizabeth hum thoughtfully before she spoke again. “Well, maybe it’s just you then.”
*FLAILS* OMG, omg omg. This is SO good.
Urquhart! Blushing! AIE, this is the best thing EVER XD *curbs capslock* And Elizabeth is such a little matchmaker XD In a weird, twisted, whacko kind of way.
Aah, Stamper likes football! He is SO CUTE. *wants to hug him and fuzzle his hair*
Urquhart’s voice was one that you felt before you heard
This is SUCH a good description of his voice. Guh.
To be included in Urquhart’s anxieties about the future seemed to settle any doubts that Stamper had about his own importance.
AWW. *remembers TPtK* GAH TRAGIC ;_;
“Come, my council’s consistory, what say you?”
*FLAIL* *DOUBLE FLAIL* And your footnote! Because YES, Stamper. Run. Now. Please.
“Oh, Tim,” Urquhart said between bouts of laughter. “You have such a poetic nature,”
You said it, Francis XD I love your Stamper beyond all coherency!
he was also concerned that he was starting to sound a little too ‘Essex’ for Urquhart’s liking.
EEEEEEE. Oh my gosh, I wish I was good enough to recognize an Essex accent XD
“You’re right. Some of us aren’t,” he agreed and in a move that shocked Stamper, he raised his hand and cupped the side of his face affectionately.
!!!!!!! Eee! Buh! And other incoherent things! I adore how you write them, I truly do.
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-22 04:27 pm (UTC)November 1982 is when I was born
Hee, a quick look at your profile helped me to decide when to set the thing. I was umming and ahhing like crazy, flip-flopping between '82 and '83.
Awww, city boy Stamper feels so out-of-place in the country, and you write him SO incredibly well. It brings so much more to his character to read things like this that delve into him and his viewpoint on the world.
*blushes* Thanks. I rather like Stamper when he's being wistful. Like the steam room scenes in TPtK. I rather enjoy writing his reflective moods. And (as a city girl) I was feeling Stamper's country-anxiety! *cringes*
Urquhart really seems like the type to need someone he can trust to bolster his ego
Yeah, for all his egotism he still seems to need quite a bit of propping up. Let's face it, without Elizabeth he wouldn't have done anything, except whinge maybe.
I love Elizabeth! I can't help it! She's so awesome. I love the fact that she knows about Stamper's feelings well before he does and of course she was going to tell Urquhart all about it!
I love Stamper's wife as well (or at least the version of her that I made up in my head a few years ago!) It's sad really, that she loses him well before she actually loses him, if you catch my drift.
Aah, Stamper likes football!
He does indeed (like most Brits). There's a cute scene in the book with him and Urquhart at a football match.
This is SUCH a good description of his voice
His voice is EXACTLY like that, isn't it? I was actually very proud of that line.
And I made sure to put in an RIII reference. It has to be done, doesn't it? Poor Stamper *wibble*
I love your Stamper beyond all coherency!
YAY!
I wish I was good enough to recognize an Essex accent
I can't recall off the top of my head which famous people have an Essex accent...except Alan Davies. It sounds like a lot of London accents though.
Ahh *is happy* I love writing for this mini fandom!
(no subject)
Date: 2009-11-24 12:50 am (UTC)Oooh, I do too. And this was just marvelous, a wonderful example of it.
It's sad really, that she loses him well before she actually loses him, if you catch my drift.
Yeah, it really is, and I like your version of Stamper's wife, too.
There's a cute scene in the book with him and Urquhart at a football match.
I must see this o_o
I love writing for this mini fandom!
I love being in this mini-fandom! It's so awesome XD And we're lucky to have great writers in it!