This Was a Man (The Clifton Chronicles #7)(114)
‘My lords, I don’t ask you, I beg you, to let your views be clearly heard by our fellow countrymen when you cast your votes tonight, and soundly reject this bill.’
He sat down to resounding cheers and the waving of order papers from behind him, and silence from the benches opposite. When the cheers finally died down, Emma rose slowly from her seat, placed her speech on the despatch box and gripped its sides firmly in the hope that no one would see just how nervous she was.
‘My lords,’ she began, her voice trembling slightly, ‘it would be churlish of me not to acknowledge the performance of my noble kinsman, Lord Barrington, but performance it was, because I suspect that when you read his words in Hansard tomorrow, you will see that his speech was long on rhetoric, short on substance and devoid of facts.’
A few muted ‘Hear, hear’s could be heard from her colleagues seated behind her, while the members opposite remained silent.
‘I spent seven years of my life running a large NHS hospital, so I don’t have to prove that I am just as concerned about the future of the National Health Service as anyone sitting on the benches opposite. However, despite all the passion mustered by the noble lord, the truth is that, in the end, someone has to pay the bills and balance the books. The NHS has to be funded with real money, and paid for with the taxes of real people.’
Emma was delighted to see a few heads nodding. Giles’s speech had been well received, but it was her responsibility to explain the finer details of the proposed legislation. She took their lordships through the substance of the bill clause by clause, but was unable to kindle the flame of passion that her brother had ignited so successfully.
As she turned another page, she became aware of what her grandfather, Lord Harvey, once described as losing the attention of the House, that moment when members become listless and begin chattering among themselves. Far more damning even than jeering or cries of ‘Shame’.
She glanced up to see an elderly peer nodding off, and when, moments later, he began to snore, the members seated on either side of him made no attempt to wake him, as they were all too clearly enjoying the minister’s discomfort. Emma realized the minutes were slipping away before the House would be asked to divide and the votes would be counted. She turned another page. ‘And now I would like to acknowledge the backbone of the NHS, our magnificent nurses, who—’
Giles leapt to his feet to interrupt the minister, and in doing so strayed on to enemy territory. Emma immediately gave way, allowing her brother to command the despatch box.
‘I am grateful to the noble lady for giving way, but may I ask, if she considers nurses are doing such a magnificent job, why are they only receiving a three per cent pay rise?’ Convinced that Emma was now on the ropes, he sat down to loud cries of ‘Hear, hear!’
Emma resumed her place at the despatch box. ‘The noble lord, if I recall his words correctly, demanded a fourteen per cent pay rise for nurses.’ Giles nodded vigorously. ‘So I am bound to ask him where he expects the government to find the extra money to pay for such an increase?’
Giles was quickly back on his feet, ready to deliver the knockout blow. ‘It could start by putting up taxes for the highest earners, who can well afford to pay a little more to assist those less fortunate than themselves.’ He sat down to even louder cheers, while Emma waited patiently at the despatch box.
‘I’m glad the noble lord admitted that would be a start,’ she said, picking up a red file that a Treasury official had handed her that morning, ‘because a start is all it would be. If he is asking this House to believe that the Labour Party could cover a fourteen per cent pay rise for nurses simply by raising taxes for those earning forty thousand pounds a year or more, let me tell him this, he would require a tax hike to ninety-three per cent year on year. And I confess,’ she added, borrowing her brother’s brand of sarcasm, ‘I hadn’t realized that a tax rate of ninety-three per cent was Labour Party policy, because I didn’t spot it in their manifesto, which I read word for word.’
Emma could hear the laughter coming from behind her, even if she couldn’t see her colleagues jabbing their fingers at her brother and repeating, ‘Ninety-three per cent, ninety-three per cent.’
Like Giles, she waited for silence before adding, ‘Perhaps the noble lord would tell the House what other ideas he has for covering the extra cost?’
Giles remained seated.
‘Might I be allowed to suggest one or two ways of raising the necessary funds that would help him to reach his target of fourteen per cent?’
Emma had recaptured the attention of the House. She turned a page of the Treasury memo inside the red file. ‘For a start, I could cancel the three new hospitals planned for Strathclyde, Newcastle and Coventry. That would solve the problem. Mind you, I’d need to close another three hospitals next year. But I am not willing to make that sacrifice, so perhaps I should look at some other departments’ budgets and see what my colleagues have to offer.’
She turned another page.
‘We could cut back on our plans for new universities, or withdraw the three per cent increase in the old age pension. That would solve the problem. Or we could cut back on our armed forces by mothballing the odd regiment. No, no, we couldn’t do that,’ she said scornfully, ‘not after the noble lord spoke so passionately against any cutbacks in the armed forces budget only a month ago.’