Children of the Master. Andrew Marr

local party. The second piece of bad news was the quality of the blow-ins from London: a popular former government minister who’d lost his seat at the last election, and a senior adviser to the current leader, who’d been profiled in the Guardian, amongst them. Murdoch White had been right. This was going to be a tough fight.

      Davie was undressing for bed, tugging off a sock. Mary was already under the duvet. She was pretending to check his Twitter feed, but he could see she was barely concentrating.

      ‘So. What then?’

      ‘I don’t like it, love. You’ve built up such a lot here. I just don’t want you to get hurt.’

      ‘You mean you don’t think I’ll win?’

      ‘I’m no’ saying that … Well, not quite. It’ll be hard, obviously. Those guys from London … I’m just saying … What about the kids? You’re barely ever home at the moment, and when you are, you’re like a great big grumbly bear with a sore head. This … this is all numbers and tactics … doing folk down … putting the best face on. Is that how you want to live your life? Do you actually want a family, big man?’

      Davie grunted. This could go either way. Mary’s temperature was rising, and he could see a full-blown row blowing in his direction. He was too damned tired for that. ‘Hey, darling. Wheesht. I know I’ve been an annoying bugger recently. Aye, a bear. It’s been a hard pounding, you know, down the road. I’ve got more than a hundred employees dependent upon me’ – he stabbed his chest with a squat finger. ‘That’s a lot of families, a lot of bread on a lot of tables. And it’s harder getting the contracts in than it used to be. There’s less and less money coming through the council. Everybody’s squeezed by the banks. Bloody taxman’s on my back too, emails every week. So aye, I know I look like I’m not noticing, not listening. And sweetheart, I’m sorry. But see here, if I get a new start, in politics, all of that’ll be off my shoulders. The boys in the office are well capable of dealing with it.

      ‘I know politics is a mad business, but look at it this way.’ (I’m making a bloody speech, he thought. Good tactics? Bad tactics? Hell, but it has to be said.) ‘The kids carry on here, nothing changes, except that they get regular stays in London – and that can’t be bad for them. I go down there and I work my arse off, we don’t have any scratchy moments, and then I’m home at the weekends and we can enjoy ourselves. The old days again. Play our cards right, and we’ll end up living down there at least some of the time. A whole new life.’

      As he’d been talking, Mary had started to comb out her hair, never a good sign. ‘You mean you’ll be down there having the time of your life, dandering about – gadding – up to all sorts. I’ll be left up here alone with the ironing. Where’s my company? Where’s my life? What about our marriage?’

      ‘You’ve got Mum – you like her. And you never see me during the week anyway. Not properly. You spend all your time thinking about the boys. All you’ll do is swap a grumpy, distracted builder for a rising young politician, spreading his wings.’

      ‘As long as it’s only your wings. And by the way, do bears have wings?’ He could see that she wasn’t entirely convinced, but at least there was now a half-smile on her face. Storm ducked. Davie yanked down his boxers and slid under the covers. After a few moments of tense waiting, he moved his arm across and began to stroke Mary’s left breast through her nightie. She groaned, exhaled and turned towards him …

      ‘Brace yourself, Janet.’ The old joke. But just at that moment a loud musical clang echoed up the stairs.

      ‘Jesus Christ almighty. Who’s that at this hour?’

      ‘Well I’m not bloody going,’ said Mary. ‘Your dressing gown’s hanging in the bathroom.’

      Pulling it around him as he hopped down the hallway, Davie saw a tall silhouette in the frosted glass of the front door. He had a nasty suspicion that he recognised it.

      ‘Ah – Mr White. This is a bit of a surprise. Er, late, and all …’

      ‘I’ve never come across a politician who sneaks off to bed at this hour, Mr Petrie. Take it I’m welcome?’ Murdoch White pushed his way into the house, pulled off his wet overcoat and made himself at home in the front room. ‘Newsnight’s still on, man. A small one would do fine.’

      Davie gave in without even trying to fight. He went upstairs to pull some clothes back on. Mary was lying under the duvet, and didn’t respond when he explained. She just lay there, pretending to be asleep.

      Downstairs, White had given up on the telly and turned the sound down. He drained his whisky, and turned to Petrie. ‘Things all right upstairs?’

      ‘Oh, yes. We tend to turn in early.’

      ‘Well that’s going to stop, I can promise you. But I mean, things all right – you know – in the bedroom department?’

      ‘Mr White!’

      ‘Oh, I know, not my business. But you see, Mr Petrie, it is now. In a way, that’s why I’m here. On paper, and at first impression, you seem to me to be an absolutely ideal candidate, a man who can help revive our party and bring it back to power. We have faith in you. Some important people know your name. Now, that’s a big thing I’m saying.’

      ‘Aye, and you know I’m grateful, Mr White …’

      ‘But if we’re going to put in the time, and the energy, and who knows, the money as well, to help your career, David Petrie, we need to be sure that you can go the distance. Being in politics is a lot like being a top-flight sportsman. We can’t have any distractions. If it turns out that you’re a secret homo, or you bash yourself off to kiddie porn, I need to know now. Even if you and your wife are fighting all the time – that’ll weaken you for what’s ahead.

      ‘You need to be a good sleeper. You don’t have to have a clear conscience, but you do have to be able to put it to one side. You need to eat well, and to have no more than one or two drinks a day. You need energy, strength, oomph. Forgive me, but you need to be able to crap regularly. More politicians have been pulled down by irregular bowel habits and poor sleeping patterns, just being a bit pasty and weary, than by all the clever ploys of their enemies. So I need to know you inside out. Are you clean, man? Are you strong? What’s behind that shiny pink young face?’

      And I thought I made speeches, Davie thought. ‘Jesus, Mr White, you make it sound like I’m joining the SAS or MI6. I thought I was just trying to be a Labour candidate.’

      ‘Oh, you can be a Labour candidate without our help, if you’re tough enough and wily enough. You can probably become a Labour MP without our help. You might even rise to be a junior minister one day – you’ve got what that takes. But I thought I’d made it clear to you that I’m talking about something different. Something a bit more interesting. I want you to be able to go all the way. And that’s not like the SAS, it’s like running a marathon every week of the year. As far as MI6 is concerned, then sure, you’re going to need a brilliant memory and a talent for skulduggery, and always to be the best observer in the room. The shrewdest. The most attentive. Does all that put you off? Does it frighten you, Petrie?’

      Davie realised that he was sitting on the edge of his own sofa, his back upright, while Murdoch White sprawled; he seemed to himself like a little boy at an interview. So he went over to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of wine, forcing himself not to offer the older man a top-up.

      ‘No, Mr White, it doesn’t frighten me. I’m happily married. No skeletons. I’ve got a pair of good kids – too old for ADHD, too young for drugs. I have the odd glass, but no problems there. As to fit, well, I don’t go to the gym or anything like that, but if you’ve ever tried to run a building company, you’ll know you need to be a pretty tough physical specimen. I think I am. Tough. Pay attention. If I remember rightly, you won your first by-election with a majority of just 2,224.’

      Murdoch White, for the first time, shifted slightly in his seat. ‘I did. But what’s that got to do …’

      ‘Which