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A Personal Statement

Ansley Vaughan

Culver City, CA

A Personal Statement

For information on the cover illustration and design, contact

secondmediauk@aol.com.

Editor: Heather Sapp

ISBN: 1-934069- 43-4

form without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may

quote brief passages for review purposes.

This book is a work of fiction and resemblance to any person, living or dead, any

place, events or occurrences, is purely coincidental. The characters and story lines are

created from the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Warning:

This book contains graphic sexual material and is not meant to be read by any

person under the age of 18.

If you are interested in purchasing more works of this nature, please stop by

http://www.freyasbower.com .

Freya’s Bower.com

P.O. Box 4897

Culver City, CA 90231-4897

Printed in The United States of America

A Personal Statement

CHAPTER ONE

"To say that the Right Honourable Gentleman has just been guilty of a

terminological inexactitude would be like saying the sun is a long way away." The

man was flushed, furious. "It is both so obvious as hardly to require pointing out, and

also scarcely enough to convey the magnitude of his inaccuracy." He banged his hand

onto the leather surface in front of him for emphasis. "The statistics on which he is

basing his assumptions are wrong. I’ve already proved them to be wrong. Why does

he persist in using them?"

In the dappled light of the House of Commons, two men were squaring up to each

other across the despatch box. The man who had spoken flung himself down on the

green leather bench, giving way to the other, who stood, tall and elegant, smiling at

his opponent.

"Mr Deputy Speaker, it seems to me that we’ve been through all this before. If the

Honourable Gentleman were not so excitable, he might remember that a thorough

analysis of these statistics was presented to the House only a week ago."

On this bright spring evening in London, many of the members of parliament

who remained at Westminster had drifted out onto the terrace, and groups of noisy

drinkers thronged the tables. There were more people there than usual because an

important vote was due at ten that night; in the meantime, they had nothing to do

but chat and drink. When the whisper went round the bars and terraces, "Dumont

and Wickham are having a go," the chamber began to fill up. There is nothing MPs

like more than a good punch-up.

Jack Wickham was on his feet again. He was angry now, not feigning it, and his

face had paled, with just a spot of colour on each cheek. "Mr Deputy Speaker, I

assume that the Right Honourable Gentleman is using yet more of the coded

language at which he is so proficient. ‘Excitable.’ Yes, well, I am excitable when faced

with dishonesty and chicanery on this scale."

A hubbub immediately erupted, MPs on all sides recognising this as

unparliamentary language of the worst sort. Sure enough, the Deputy Speaker

intervened, with a sharp cry of "Order, Order!" He looked at Wickham severely over

the top of his spectacles, and intoned, "I must ask the Honourable Member for

Beresford to withdraw those words."

Wickham looked mutinous. Across the aisle, his quarry was lying back, long legs

crossed, an expression of amusement on his face.

"The Honourable Member must withdraw, or I will be forced to take action

against him."

The pause continued, then the person sitting next to him on the opposition

benches tugged at Wickham’s sleeve and whispered something. He nodded, then

straightened up. "Mr Deputy Speaker, I apologise to you and the House, and I

withdraw the words unreservedly. But it does seem to me that the Bill, which the

minister is seeking to force through, is a microcosm of everything that is wrong with

his party and with him. He is presiding over legislation which gradually removes

freedoms and makes minorities vulnerable. In the Brave New World which the

minister is building, it would be as well not to be different, in any way, not to be a

single mother, not to be differently-abled, and certainly not to be gay!"

Pascal Dumont got up again, unfolding his long limbs without haste. "Mr Deputy

Speaker, the Honourable Member for Beresford has certainly got things out of

proportion if he’s suggesting that a Bill for tightening regulations on public

A Personal Statement

behaviour is a major threat to civil liberties."

"The fact remains," Wickham said, leaping to his feet, “that the penalties included

in the Bill are extreme, not to say draconian."

Dumont rose again, scarcely getting himself upright before drawling. "I think the

shadow minister doth protest too much."

Wickham had got himself under control by now, and he looked round at the

members of his own party behind him. "Mr Deputy Speaker, I read in one of the

Sunday supplements that the reason the minister has got that very… fancy French

name is because his ancestors were Norman. Came over with William the Conqueror.

So all I can say is, his family has a long history of oppressing the poor bloody

peasants."

Dumont responded equably. "Mr Deputy Speaker, I am working under the minor

handicap of being a British politician with a French name. The Honourable Member

for Beresford is labouring under the crushing disadvantage of being… himself."

He smiled around the chamber at the laughter this generated on both sides, and

then left. But he was not smiling when he got to his office, his parliamentary private

secretary in attendance. He flung his papers on the desk and made for the drinks

cabinet.

"What the hell is wrong with that man, that he wrenches everything round to a

suggestion that I’m homophobic?"

His PPS, Angela Hilton was a forceful woman in early middle age. She was so

ambitious that even Dumont was sometimes a bit intimidated by her.

"Well, he’s over-sensitive," she said, accepting a gin and tonic. "And frankly

Minister, there are plenty of people who would be quite happy if you were… um… less

than committed to this endless whinging about gay rights. Whatever Wickham says,

there are plenty of people who think this government has gone too far in pandering

to minorities of all sorts.”

"Well, I’m not going to change my position. But bloody Wickham is getting on my

nerves, always needling me like that."

"Why don’t you have a word with him? Ask him to tone it down?"

Dumont thought about it. "I could, I suppose. But I’m wary of handing the little

bastard anything he could use as ammunition against me." He banged his glass down

on the desk, signifying an end to the conversation. "Now, what’s next?"

Angela’s brief was to help him with his parliamentary work, but she pulled out the

diary which his secretary had left and squinted at it. "You have dinner with your

Constituency Chairman."

"Ah yes, of course, Len’s here for a few days."

"I presume that means you’re not going north?"

"Not this time, thank heavens. That journey really takes it out of me at the end of

a long week."

"Ah, you poor devils with far-flung constituencies!" Angela smiled the smug smile

of someone who represented a south London seat. "And tomorrow, in the morning,

you said you’d make time to talk to the new intern."

"Intern?" He scowled. "Oh yes, Senator Howells’ protégé. Well, I’ll be in my office

all day."

* * *

In a much smaller office at the other end of Whitehall, Jack Wickham stormed up

and down while his companion sat at a desk, trying to write on a laptop computer.

"Damn the man. He’s clearly a homophobe, he never lets a chance go by without

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