Children of the Master. Andrew Marr

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       Funny Farm

      The good politician understands that there are no chance meetings, only unexpected chances.

      The Master

      The collection of brick buildings didn’t make immediate sense. They were too scattered for a farm, too well-maintained for cheap housing, and not substantial enough for a hotel. A riding club, perhaps? And in the late-afternoon sunshine there were indeed a couple of young women on ponies crossing the lawn that backed onto a minor road.

      In their path stood a middle-aged man who appeared to have a swarm of insects inside his clothes. He scratched feverishly at his armpits and midriff. He windmilled his arms and stamped his feet in a dance of exasperation. He clawed at his longish hair and shouted, then threw himself onto his knees and rubbed his face in the dampness of the grass.

      ‘Poor Stephen,’ said one of the young women.

      ‘Yah. Poor Stephen. Stephen’s fine. He’ll be fine tomorrow,’ the other replied. Both girls were expensively well spoken and gaunt.

      Watching all of this from the window of her minicab was Angela. She leaned over, paid the driver for the ride from the station and opened the door, lugging a small suitcase.

      ‘Thanks. I’ll be fine from here on.’

      At St Peter’s Asset Management, Caroline Phillips had been immensely popular. She couldn’t help it. Everybody loved this frantically hard-working and ambitious student of currency swaps; at the heart of the City, the steel and limestone palazzo of Damazer House almost overflowed with laughter as Caro and her new friends bought, sold, crunched the numbers and sold again. All through that first year, from April until early October, the sun seemed to splash through the windows and paddle gold fingers through the hair of the chosen. Caro’s mere presence had lightened St Peter’s, and her manager recommended her for promotion a mere eight months after she joined.

      She should have been very happy, and mostly she was. Young Caro had all the joys and sweetmeats that London life could bring in the twenty-first century. She had admiration, a challenging and interesting job which hadn’t even existed a few decades earlier, a colourful collection of international friends, enough money, and a status unthinkable for earlier generations of young, non-royal women. She had, in short, everything … except purpose. For even then, Caroline was too clever, and perhaps too moral, to believe that making money was a purpose.

      So when, at a C of E seminar for City employees, held at a Blitz-battered and restored Wren church, she bumped into Angela, her first emotion was jealousy. Caroline had been drifting – working hard as she drifted, admirably, lucratively, pleasantly. Angela, however, had a vocation. Just as when they’d first met at school, Angela had an intensity, a sense of urgency that beautiful Caroline lacked. Caroline’s world was full of promise, stretching out in the sunshine. But Angela’s world was more interesting; it had shadows and meaning, and it wouldn’t go on forever.