In the cabinet room, a doleful Keir Starmer stacks three-foot columns of lever-arch files labelled “Parliamentary Process”. Beside them on the burgundy carpet is an empty plastic wallet marked “Policy Ambition”.
Sir Keir has just returned from the Downing Street lectern, where he resigned with such dignity you could be forgiven for forgetting he’s one of the most loathed men in a country that is also home to Michael McIntyre.
I overhear talk among the retained focus group he keeps in an adjacent office. “If only he’d been that honest and decisive in power.”
“He was a communist,” says another.
“Not communist enough,” says a third.
“See what I had to put up with?” says Starmer. The words arrive via a nasal cavity uniquely evolved to prevent the escape of unaudited charisma.
“The commentariat. The left. The right. Everyone was gunning for me.”
He is still raw that a country crying out for systemic change could be upset by a man who insisted on taking control and then didn’t do very much.
“So bloody unfair,” says Wes Streeting, who is cheerfully replacing the nameplate on the door.
“We need to take stock,” says Rachel Reeves. “Would the bus passenger who can’t drive, but who insists on taking the wheel after eliminating the driver, be popular?”
“Well, that depends. Was his father a toolmaker?” asks Starmer.
Overhead, an 80-inch plasma screen with Boris Johnson’s fingerprints all over it is showing rolling news broadcasts of the nine-car Class 390 Pendolino on which Andy Burnham is travelling. News editors haven’t shown this much interest in a train since Jeremy Corbyn pretended an Intercity 225 was slightly busier than it was in 2016.
“Public service is a privilege, and it was the honour of my life to purge socialism from the Labour party,” says Starmer. “To watch the left coming back into Euston on a delayed 10.58 Avanti West Coast is too much.”
The track of a solitary tear gleams on his cheek. Reeves puts a stiff hand on his shoulder. It is akin to watching C-3PO soothe a self-checkout terminal.
The prime minister’s wife, Victoria, enters and hands him his 10am Rich Tea. “Is Andy Burnham of the left?” she asks, apparently struggling to place his support for Reeves’s arbitrary fiscal rules and Shabana Mahmood’s immigration reforms on the left of a PLP that once contained Dennis Skinner and Tony Benn.
“He wants to do things,” complains Starmer. “I joined the Labour movement to fight for thinktanks and comms agencies. Not to upset the vested interests of the status quo.”
Victoria turns to me. “We knew he’d get it with both barrels from the media. But for people across the political divide to turn on him. Well.”
“Yes. What really hurt is when people questioned my judgement,” says Starmer.
Peter Mandelson emerges from a side office in a pair of white Y-fronts. He moves with such polish and composure I scarcely notice that he belongs more to history than to the living. He sees I am slack-jawed.
“It’s a heatwave,” he says blandly, carrying a pile of boxes back into the room. “Fire up the shredders, Reinaldo!”
“That really stung,” continues Starmer. “Just because I tried to curtail the winter fuel allowance for terrorists.”
“Butterbean,” Victoria, says, her eyes heavy with intended significance.
Starmer is nonplussed. “Oh drat. I’ve done it again haven’t I? Pensioners. Not terrorists.”
“Easily done,” says Streeting. Everyone nods.
The Prince of Darkness reappears. “Well, the confidentiality engine is a hungry little minx today,” he says, taking another armful of files.
“I was elected on a mandate of not being the Tories. People wanted to see an end to the lies, the hypocrisy and shameless manoeuvring. Have they forgotten that?” asks Starmer. Mandelson’s latest withdrawal has left a single folder on the table: “10 Pledges. Labour Leadership Campaign 2020.”
“Increase income tax on top 5 per cent of earners. Reverse corporation tax cuts. Crack down on tax avoidance. Abolish Universal Credit. Support public ownership in key utilities and transport.”
The words lie there, evidence in a case nobody intends to prosecute, unrecognised by the man who used them to attain power. Blind to the distance between what he promised and what he became, aware only of the unfairness of being judged by it, Starmer nibbles his Rich Tea.
“Andy Burnham is at Euston,” Sky News announces. The cameras have already turned away, confirming once again, that government is only ever a temporary interruption to the more important business of commentary.
