At what point it dawned on individual conference participants that there would be no grand dining, and that like Victorian children they would have to make do with high tea every evening, was difficult to tell. Indeed, should they require anything approaching a supper, this would need to be negotiated in advance with Charlie, the food itself having to be set aside from tea, and stored in the small fridge behind the bar. However, at tea on the second day, in what appeared a coordinated manoeuvre, both Germany and the US stepped down from the table, and took their full plates to sit, fireside.
‘How are you finding the English at home, Mr President?’
‘I’m Irish myself.’
I immediately told Barmy to listen-up, there being such an easy play at this point, one that could kill such potential cosiness at a stroke, Buffy was bound to use it.
‘In Germany we do not have this obsession with family history.’
‘Of course.’
‘There is only one small class of people who do, families whose ancestors were involved in unification in the nineteenth century or pioneers in industrial development.’
‘Don’t tell me, they just happened to be related to all the aristocratic princelings or whatever.’
‘Precisely so.’
I managed to get a split screen for Barmy, Charlie piling crumpets onto a large plate, whilst Buffy stood by, anxiously thrusting and parrying at an imaginary foe with the toasting fork. Charlie then followed Buffy, back into the combat zone.
Squatting between them, focusing on the fire, Buffy opening with; ‘The Irish have always, until recently, had the advantage over us when it comes to genealogy, impeccable hard-copy records, a mass of leather-bound indexes, they’ll even give you the port of exit. There’s not a street in England that doesn’t have personal connections to the whole of the island of Ireland, and Scotland and Wales, even those now filled with recent migrants from the Commonwealth. I understand some family history buffs are already on your case Mr President, they can place your lot in Sussex for generations. And there’s not a village in Ireland without some English blood. I don’t know if either of you have had one of those genetic tests for ancestry? The more reputable firms give their answers as ninety-four per cent or whatever, British stroke Irish, not because they can’t tell, but because there is no difference. Break it all down further, one day they’ll just say Atlantic fringe, not Celtic fringe, all the way from the Baltic to the Pyrenees. Everyone else is just northern European, even St. Patrick himself, made his way up the east coast of England in the footsteps of others, before Scotland, before Ireland, before spreading the good word to the western half of England.’
By now, the whole room appeared to have fallen silent.
‘We are Ireland’s largest trading partner, and most of the rest comes through English ports, en-route. What with Brexit and the pandemic, they’ll come a time when Ireland can’t afford its dues to the EU, you may well chuck them out, if you’re still around. We’ve never left Ireland, we never shall. We’ve just had the one hundredth anniversary of the borderless border with the six counties, next year sees the anniversary of the creation of the Irish Free State. Dublin, once known as the first city of the empire, will get whatever it needs. Everyone is looking forward to the publication of the digitised nineteen twenty-one census later this year, comparable with the existing nineteen eleven. That’s going to put to bed the missing pieces of the Great War, the flu pandemic, oh, and the Irish Risings too. Now if all that doesn’t terrify you, it should, unless you feel you have the stomach for the fight. Crumpets anyone? I believe it’s Irish butter today, Sparkwell?’
‘Yes, fully-salted, Prime Minister.’
After a long pause, the US President broke the silence; ‘You’re fast Buffy, I’ll give you that, not as slick as “flash Dave”, but maybe that’s just as well.’
Later, once Charlie had prepared the Games Room, Buffy gathered them all in the hallway. ‘You’d better give us all a briefing Sparkwell - she often serves as referee on these occasions, plus offering physio to the injured, naturally.’
‘Very good, sir. No alcohol and no betting permitted. Participants may only leave the room between completed games. Four games are available, firstly the Pool Table, no explanation required, secondly Darts, fear not, the automatic scorer will register any dart that stays on the board, set to 501. VR, the permitted zone is clearly taped on the floor, headsets currently allow duelling with sabres or single-shot pistols, the flight simulator, currently offers Spitfire Mark II or Messerschmitt 109, daylight runway, nearest thing to east coast England as we could make it. Referee’s decision is final. Good luck everyone.’
South Korea, narrowly beat Japan to the flight simulator. Turning on his heals Japan immediately made a grab for one of the headsets and promptly challenged the rest of the world to a duel with swords, Australia was the first to step forward. The US suggested to Canada they should partner for Pool, France and Italy reluctantly joined them. Meanwhile Buffy, began practicing throwing darts, before offering to teach the remainders.
‘Always aim for the treble twenty, no matter what the outcome, eventually it’ll come down to singles to finish, by which time you won’t care and magically hit what you need...’ It never ceased to amaze me how even the most politically experienced seemed to find it impossible to see beyond the smokescreen of blather and tomfoolery. He doesn’t care what you think, he’s been saying “fuck you” to you all for so long, yet still your own vanity, stops you seeing the absence of it in him. It’s the outcome that counts. And it’s no good catching him out on some technicality, he’ll take the punishment, then come back smiling. They don’t even notice his biggest tell, the glint in the eye, just as he’s about to begin the next whopper. Inside he’s laughing at you, at the prospect of getting away with something, anything!
When I came back from my reverie, Charlie and Germany could be seen standing beside the now vacant flight simulator; ‘But this machine, I see it is German made. How did it get here?’
‘I know no details madam, legend has it that it was a university-built prototype that never got adopted.’
‘I have seen such things before, made to be portable, for training amateurs who want to fly their own planes. Is it difficult to learn?’
‘It is intended to train those with no experience, only you will know how well or badly you are doing.’
‘Very well.’ And with that she climbed into the cockpit.
In time the game playing slowed, the politicians turned to spectating and talking about games. Soon everyone was watching the flight simulator, the only game left in progress. Germany was of course wearing headphones and clearly into the game - leaning left and right, forwards and backwards - but somewhat out of sync with the roll of the machine itself. Now as the rest of the room became quieter, her own commentary to herself became ever more audible. Her audience began to smile and exchange glances.
I noticed Barmy’s jaw had visibly dropped; ‘What’s she saying?’
‘I’d rather not say. You know how at school, teachers called rude words, Anglo-Saxon, and talked about English having Germanic roots...’
‘Oh, lord! Do you think anyone in the room understands?’
‘I doubt it. Anyway, she seems to have moved on from fighting the English, to having a go at the Slavs...’
We were interrupted by the sound of a loud crack and thud as the hydraulics suddenly collapsed and the pod came to rest at an odd angle.
Charlie rushed forward; ‘Buffy!’
‘How bad Charlie?’
‘Fetch the trolley, this one requires a spa treatment.’
As people gathered around the stricken Chancellor, Charlie stepped back from the crowd, and a moment later, images started downloading.
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