HIS LAUGH


"Sir Patrick Beamish ex-chairman of 1922 club,
influential back bencher and grandee. Perhaps
one of the few old school Conservative MPs who is
untarnished by scandal." Said the quote from
the broadsheet I was reading in the British Library
archives.

A small picture showed a tall thin man, with piercing
blue eyes and black and white streaked hair. A younger
picture showed him at Oxford arsing about with his
friends. They looked very nice. He looked bored.
A wedding photo of Patrick marrying a young hopeful
looking girl called Catherine, she was all hunched up
in shock and bewilderment-he had serial killer eyes.
Nice touch. No children. Until now.

I phoned the mobile number:
"Patrick Beamish." Said his voice.
Shit-my tongue stuck to my mouth like cheese to
a pizza.
"Hello?" Curt now and inpatient.
I could feel the blood rushing in my ears.
"Hi, um it's Becka." I mumbled.
"I think you must have the wrong number."
"I don't think so, you posted me a letter." I
said quickly.
"I did? Could it be, Rebecca?" His voice caught
with emotion and hope.
"Yeah, Rebecca Martin, but I like to be called Becka."
"Where are you?" He asked.
"I'm not far from Kings Cross." I said.
"Kings Cross?" His voice sounded like he found it
quite offensive.
"I don't live there! I was in the library." I laughed.
"Can you come here? To The House of Commons?"
"Why not? I'll catch the tube."
"I feel quite nervous." He said and laughed (my
laugh, gravelly and deep).
"This feels so strange." I said.
"See you in moment then." He said suddenly and
coldly hanging up in the process.
Did I want this man in my life? I was intrigued-
this was quite new for me. Not knowing how to act
around a man.
Ma had a fucking lot to answer for!
I just could not get over his laugh.

Becka