The screen faded from black, the gentle notes of a xylophone coming through with the image of a small puppet in a black lay gown, embodied with gold, and a long white wig clutching to a crank. Another few notes of the xylophone came through, and the puppet turned the crank, turning the roller caption, which read in big white letters; WESTMINSTER GREEN. The puppet briefly glanced to the words, then looked to the camera, the image fading to black.
As soon darkness engulfed the screen, the image faded back in, this time to a table that was covered by a white sheet. On top of the table was a hexagonal music box, painted black and yellow, and decorated with images of blooming daffodils and doves taking flight.
“Here is a box,” a calm, though exited voice declared, “a musical box, wound up and ready to play.” The voice continued. “But this box can hide a secret inside. Can you guess what is in it today?”
The sound went for a second, then returned with a brief, sharp click. The box began to spin on its stand, gears whirring whilst off screen a guitar was delicately plucked. The box span, then the screen cut to a close up of the top of the box. The top folded open, and a small man, a gaunt and lanky figure, dressed neatly in a three piece and bowler hat, gently rose out. The whirring became louder, quickly drowning out the sound of the guitar as the figure spun. The camera cut to a close up, the music and whirring stopping with the spinning.
“Why, it’s Jeremy Thorpe, Leader of the Liberals.” The small figure gave a wave. “Hello Mr. Thorpe.”
The figure of Jeremy Thorpe took off his hat and bowed.
“Are you busy Mr. Thorpe?” Thorpe nodded. “A lot of important business to attend to?” Thorpe nodded again, then ran his small mitten-hand over his greying hair. Behind him, an office faded in, a padded swivel chair and desk littered with papers and three telephones appearing beside him. Thorpe looked behind him, then to the camera, slipping out his suits jacket, which he draped over his seat. Hesitating, he slipped his hat off and hung it on a hat stand, then collapsed into the chair, leaning back as he pulled on a pair of reading glasses, crossing legs as he took one of the mauve envelopes from his in-tray and scanned it.
“Important party business?” The Narrator asked, his voice trying to peak over to see the letter. Thorpe looked up and shrugged. “Not that important then?” The Narrator sighed, Thorpe shaking his head. “Letter from a Constituent?” Thorpe nodded at this, then went back to reading. The Narrator sighed again, muttering “I should have followed Harold Wilson.” under his breath.
The clock rang, and Thorpe glanced up. “Ah, it’s time to head to Parliament. Prime Minsters Questions today.” Thorpe nodded and leaped up, pulling on his jacket and bowler hat, grabbing some papers and slipping them into his briefcase. Tipping his hat to the camera, he darted out the door.
The camera cut outside, Thorpe emerging from the offices and quickly scurrying down the steps, narrowly missing bumping into the solitary passer-by.
“Getting a taxi?”
Thorpe nodded, and waved his hat to the street; a black cab came to a stop nearby, Thorpe climbing in. As it set off, the sound of a guitar gently strummed.
“There goes Jeremy Thorpe,
he’s the Liberal Leader.
Jeremy Thorpe, Jeremy Thorpe,
He’s the Liberal Leader,
Jeremy Thorpe, Jeremy Thorpe,
He’s the Liberal Leader,
Rushing off to Parliament,
To debate the Government,
Jeremy Thorpe, Jeremy Thorpe,
He’s the Liberal Leader.”
The guitar strummed a few more notes as the car passed similar, almost identical office buildings until finally it came to a stop outside of the imposing Gothic Revivalist façade of the Palace. Leaping out, he jogged to the doors, where a policeman nodded as he let him in.
Thorpe quickly shuffled into the Members' Lobby, his footsteps clicking neatly on the mosaic tile floor. Hesitating, as he glanced around, Thorpe made his way over to a pair of young men in suits stood beneath a large white statue of an important statesman from times gone by.
“Why, it’s the Chief Whip, Mr. David Steel and Chairman of the Welsh Liberals, Mr. Emlyn Hooson.” The Narrator declared as the two figures greeted Thorpe, nodding and shaking his hand. Glancing around, Steel took Thorpe to one side, whilst Hooson waved as the Leader of the House shuffled past, nodding to the three before disappearing into the chamber.
“‘What is the matter David?’ Jeremy asks. David needs to talk to Jeremy about some things that have happened recently; ‘Nothing serious of course, we just want to know how you’re holding up, after what happened.’”
A figure, round like a cricket ball and dressed in a three piece with shock blond hair and heavy bagged eyes waddled into frame, his small arms wrapped around him chest, hands clutching lapels.
“Of course this conversation is of a great interest to Mr. Cyril Smith, who just came in from Rochdale after a weekend with some friends, drinking beers with some y͠ou͜n҉g lads̵ w̶h̴o̸̢ h͘e͜͝ ͠ga̴̡v̶e͜҉͢ ͘ a̸̰͎͕͔̩̕ ̵̛̗̩̟̩̹̥̯̟̟̻̟͈͙͚̣̜̹̯͘͢g̷̻̘̙̦̯̖̥̝͖̦͍̳̱̱͎̳̣̫͈͘͢͞o҉̧̛̪͓̰͈̺̤̫̝͚̝̠͘͜o҉̴͍̪͎͈̪͕̟̮͞͞d҉̧͎̜̝̭̼͍̥͎̲̥͓͖̳̼̱̗͈͞ ̡̮̭̯̘͕̘͇͡͡͞s̶͡҉͉̱̥̝͚̬̱̜̥͢ͅp̵̶̢̰̣̘̭͇̪̺̯͓̬͇̤̯͞a͠͠͏̴̞̫̯͓̻̯͕͎͎̲̥̹̪ń̢̺̗͕̣̹̰͙̜̠̥̖͍̝͙k̸̺̠͈̖̬̲̞̲̺̞̥̝͇̞̯̝͖̮͟i̷̪̫̩̣̪̰̝͓͈͚̲͉̥͖̣͝͞ͅͅn̷̺͓͍̠͘͜͟g̷̴͍͉͇̲̜̘̩͔̗
The screen went black. A low whining emitted from the void, which became louder, elongating into a shrill scream, like that of a child. The sound came to a halt, and the darkness flickered with vertical silver strings of light. And then nothing; at least at first. The sound of rain began to slowly fade, growing louder and louder until the sound was at a cacophony.
“Jeremy has been very lonely, and very naughty” The calm voice said in a cold way through the sound of rain.