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the rape of American forests. The Globe’ s political editor, faced with a half-empty Commons or an all-expenses paid trip, had plumped for Switzerland. At least on the plane one might expect a better class of risqué stories from this Foreign Secretary than from the chap he had replaced.
    The troublemakers, the ambitious and the hangers-on never left Westminster. Thus it was that Jim Betts, standing in for his absent boss, was to be seen lounging in Members’ Lobby against the bust of Ramsay MacDonald a few minutes before six in the evening.
    His attention was caught as the thickset figure of Minister of State Edward Bampton pushed through the swing doors. Judging from his direction Bampton had come from the Smoking Room, where gossip was dispensed along with the doubles. From his expression he had heard unpleasant news.
    Betts riffled quickly through his mental card-index. Bampton was a Yorkshireman and overweeningly proud of it. He was always good for a misogynist dig or an appeal to traditional preferences such as warm beer and smoky pubs. Nearing fifty and about average height – which meant he was shorter than the typical Tory MP – podgy and ruddy-faced, he wore on his sleeve a cheerful resentment at being downgraded and, as he saw it, overlooked by the party hierarchy. His post at the Home Office, where he held responsibility for prisons, was a minor position; his role boiled down to carrying the can whenever the privately employed escort service lost a dangerous prisoner. It was widely believed that, if Bampton had his way, most of the more violent guests of Her Majesty would never have seen the light of day again.
    Betts interposed himself neatly between the man and his intended destination. It seemed likely that Bampton was heading straight for the whips’ office on the other side of the Lobby with the intention of thumping the table and saying his piece. Once inside he would be soothed and patted, fed a large Teacher’s and a little flattery and talked out of whatever was eating him. The time to strike was now.
    â€˜You look fed up, Ted, if you don’t mind me saying so. What’s the matter – the missus found out about the girlfriend?’
    Bampton scowled at the banter. ‘I don’t go in for that sort of stuff, as you well know, Jim. That’s for fools who can’t keep their trousers up. But I can’t say I’m a happy man.’
    Betts hazarded a guess. ‘There’s a reshuffle in the offing. Details out tomorrow. Is that it?’
    Bampton glanced around quickly and dropped his voice. ‘Too bloody right,’ he muttered. ‘Once again the best jobs have gone to wet-behind-the-ears smart alecs with posh accents and public school backgrounds. We might as well still be in the age of pocket boroughs.’
    Bampton warmed to his theme. ‘Don’t the party realise that people like that go down like a lead balloon in my part of the country? What we need up north are real men, businessmen, who know what the world’s about. Run a business, fought for customers, chased the debts, got the money in week by week to pay the wages. Fought off the creditors and the liquidators and knocked the competition for six to boot. I’ve done all that, but who cares? I tell you, if we had a few more of my sort in this place and in Cabinet, we’d have better decision-making at the top, and we might be popular in between elections as well.’ He paused for breath.
    Betts shrugged sympathetically. ‘Got to be on the inside, haven’t you? Mind you, look at Roger Dickson. He’s a self-made man – I mean, he married money, but nobody died and left himanything. Came up the hard way and doing all right.’
    Betts and several other journalists were floating Dickson’s name as a means of initiating comment on potential candidates for the next leadership contest. Even though the party had won, nobody expected the current holder to