If I am doing a speech at a Labour party meeting - I think I have

Host: The hall was crowded, packed to the edges with the low hum of conversation and the faint buzz of old fluorescent lights. The air carried the smell of tea, paper, and nerves — the smell of politics. A red banner with the faded emblem of the Labour rose hung crooked behind a long wooden table, where microphones waited like small metallic sentinels.

Jack sat in the back row, coat folded over his lap, watching the stage. His face, calm but tight, reflected the fatigue of a man who’d heard too many speeches and believed too few. Jeeny stood at the side, clipboard in hand, her eyes scanning the room — soft, alert, and quietly hopeful, like someone still willing to believe that words could heal.

The evening hum settled as the chair announced the speaker. A round of half-hearted applause rippled through the crowd. And in that thin applause, Jack leaned slightly toward Jeeny.

Jack: “Dennis Skinner once said, ‘If I am doing a speech at a Labour party meeting — I think I’ve done every constituency — I’ll look for a happy face, and talk to that face. In the Commons, with all the anger, I’ll fix on a blank panel above their heads.’ That’s what it’s come to, Jeeny. Politics — performed to ceilings.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not performed. Maybe survived. When you’re surrounded by noise, sometimes it’s the only way to keep speaking at all.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her hands gripped the clipboard tighter. Around them, murmurs continued — debates over funding, the NHS, the cost of hope. Jack’s eyes tracked the speaker’s gestures — the predictable rise and fall of the hand, the polite rhythm of conviction rehearsed too many times.

Jack: “He’s right though. Look at them. Half the people here are just waiting for their turn to talk. The other half are thinking about the traffic on the way home. The room’s full of faces, and still — no one’s listening.”

Jeeny: “And that’s exactly why Skinner looked for a happy one. You don’t need everyone listening. You just need one pair of eyes that believes you mean it.”

Host: The lights flickered, briefly. Someone laughed too loudly from the back. The speaker on stage tried to steady his tone, but his rhythm faltered — a man distracted by his own echo.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve never stood behind a microphone. Try it sometime. Every word feels like you’re throwing a pebble into a storm. No echo, no ripple. Just swallowed whole.”

Jeeny: “I have. In a school hall, once — for a teacher’s strike. My hands were shaking so much I nearly dropped the notes. But one woman — an older teacher in the third row — smiled the whole time. I kept my eyes on her. It was enough.”

Host: Jack turned, finally looking at her. His grey eyes softened slightly, as though he hadn’t expected her to understand.

Jack: “So that’s what Skinner meant. You look for the happy face, not because it changes the crowd, but because it saves you from hating them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Anger’s loud, but belief — belief is silent. You can’t feed off the noise. You survive by feeding off the small faith that someone still cares.”

Host: The speaker on stage raised his voice, almost shouting now, as if volume could replace sincerity. Applause came — polite, mechanical, hollow. Jack leaned back, crossing his arms.

Jack: “I used to think politics was war with words. But the older I get, the more it looks like theatre with grief. Everyone’s pretending not to be tired.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not pretending. Maybe it’s endurance. Even Skinner — he was called ‘the Beast of Bolsover’ for his fury, but he still looked for happy faces. That’s not rage. That’s courage dressed as sarcasm.”

Host: The crowd began to disperse, coats being gathered, chairs scraping against the wooden floor. A few lingered by the tea table, arguing kindly — tired soldiers after another long night. The sound of footsteps echoed in the hall.

Jack: “Funny thing, though. He said that when speaking in Parliament, he looked at a blank panel above their heads. Like he couldn’t bear to see them. Maybe that’s what truth does — it makes you look away from people.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it makes you look through them. The Commons isn’t a room; it’s a battlefield. You stare at faces long enough, you start to lose faith in humanity. So he looked up — at the panel, the emptiness — because that was the only place not poisoned by performance.”

Host: The lights dimmed, one by one. The cleaner moved quietly through the rows, sweeping away pamphlets and spilled tea. The sound of the broom brushed softly against the silence.

Jack: “You know, that blank panel — it’s almost symbolic. When everything around you is shouting, sometimes you aim your truth at the void and hope it echoes somewhere real.”

Jeeny: “And the happy face? That’s the opposite of the void — the reminder that the fight still matters. That someone’s still listening with their heart, not their ears.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his expression thoughtful now.

Jack: “But isn’t that tragic? A man spends his life speaking truth to power, and the only way to endure it is by not looking at the people he’s trying to reach.”

Jeeny: “Not tragic — human. You can’t pour your soul out to a room that’s lost its own. You talk to hope — even if it’s hiding in one person’s smile, or an empty space that doesn’t argue back.”

Host: A faint rain began outside, tapping against the old stained-glass windows of the hall. The sound was gentle, almost musical.

Jack: “He was one of the few who never stopped believing in the working class. You could hear it in his anger. Every insult, every speech — it came from love disguised as fury.”

Jeeny: “That’s why he needed the blank panel. To steady himself. Because when love turns to despair, it burns the throat. Looking above them wasn’t avoidance. It was self-preservation.”

Host: The rain intensified, blurring the view outside. The remaining lights threw pale yellow circles across the floor. Jack stood, looking up at the empty stage, his shadow stretching long.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what all real speakers do — find a way to speak beyond the noise. A ceiling, a smile, a blank wall. Anything that doesn’t talk back with cynicism.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The trick isn’t to win the crowd. It’s to keep your own heart from going numb while you try.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that hides more exhaustion than joy. He looked at Jeeny, her face still bright despite the long night.

Jack: “You’d make a good politician, you know.”

Jeeny: “No, I’d make a terrible one. I still believe words should mean something.”

Jack: “Then maybe you’d make the best kind.”

Host: The two stood in silence as the last of the lights flicked off, leaving only the faint glow of the exit sign. The hall — once full of noise and debate — now hummed with quiet, echoing peace.

Jack reached for his coat. Jeeny tucked her clipboard under her arm. The rain outside had softened, leaving the world washed clean.

Jack: “I think Skinner had it right. You talk to the happy face — and when there’s none, you talk to the ceiling. Either way, you keep talking.”

Jeeny: “Because silence, in politics or in love, is the one thing that can’t change anything.”

Host: The camera pulled back, framing them in the doorway of the empty hall — two small figures against the vast backdrop of a sleeping city. The rain glistened on the cobblestones like scattered glass.

Jack and Jeeny stepped out together, the door closing softly behind them.

And above their heads — where the blank panel would have been — the first light of dawn flickered faintly through the clouds, patient and unafraid.