A Parliamentary Affair (64 page)

‘He’ll do: we’ll have him.’

The lawyer was taken aback. ‘Him? Ah … who is he?’

‘No idea. Dun matter. We want ’im, don’t we, lads?’ The skinhead leered at the little man, who nodded quickly. At the back there was whooping and cheering. ‘Yeah! Vote fer ’im!’

‘I see. Well now, Mr er… What do you do for a living?’ Standish’s effort to regain control of events brought forth more unaccountable merriment from the skinheads. The old soldiers turned around, irritated and prim.

‘I … I work for the council,’ the man gasped at last. He pulled himself together and pushed the skinhead away. ‘I should be glad to stand. Name’s Parrot. I agree with everything you said.’

‘Put it to the meeting!’ suggested the more belligerent of the old soldiers. Standish stood stock still with his mouth open. The old man rose and brandished his stick. ‘Here, I’ll do it if you won’t. I move that Mr Parrot be our candidate. All in favour?’

A forest of hands went up. To most it did not matter who was to be the candidate: having a name on the ballot paper, any name, with all the publicity that would generate, would be enough. If Parrot wanted it, let him have it.

‘We’ll need five hundred pounds for the deposit,’ Standish said glumly. ‘And some money for printing.’ He would have dipped in his own pocket had it been himself. Now he felt honour bound to make a contribution, but not quite so much.

‘Five hundred nicker? Don’t worry about that,’ the skinhead leader Terry winked.

‘Really? Where will you get a sum like that?’ Standish was cold.

‘Don’t you cast aspersions. We earn that kind of money in a good week, mate.’ Terry grinned. ‘An’ if we don’t, we’ll nick it for Mr Parrot, won’t we, boys? When d’you want it?’

Standish knew when he was defeated and this time accepted the fact with the best grace he could muster. He had spent far too long in hospital recently to risk a recurrence at the hands of Terry, Big Dave and their mates. Moreover, there was a job to be done. Whoever this Parrot was, it would fall to himself to ensure some dignity and legality to the proceedings. ‘Tomorrow. At the council offices. Can you make two o’clock? No later – the deadline’s four.’

‘No sweat!’ The skinhead leaned across and gave the wilting Parrot a bear hug which made his bones creak. ‘See ya there, Parrot!’

‘Wait! I need at least eight signatures as assenters to the nomination. All those of you who live in the constituency and are on the electoral register.’

As the leather-jacketed youths and others queued to sign the nomination papers, Mr Standish had a queasy feeling that he had been stitched up. He had once heard Mrs Farebrother mutter
obscurely after one of his own interventions that in politics you cannot always choose your companions. Her meaning was somewhat clearer than half an hour ago.

‘Tip for you.’ Betts took a drag from his cigarette in true Humphrey Bogart style, keeping his mouth close to the earpiece.

‘Yeah? What’s that?’

‘An MP – a minister, just appointed – plain, dull, married, one child, very identikit, but seems to be moving fast. Got a girlfriend. Lovely bit of skirt. Make a good spread.’

‘Oh aye. Who’d be interested in him, then?’

‘We would, except that the dame in question is also having it off with our owner, though he’ll take you to the cleaners if you hint as much. So we have a minister in the owner’s pocket as well.’

‘Well now, that’s more interesting. What’s he minister of?’

‘Come
on.
You interested in the story or not? What’s in it for me?’

The voice at the other end chuckled knowingly. An amount was suggested and haggled over briefly. The transaction gave the betrayal a vicarious authenticity, as if money were the sole motive, but Betts was not really interested in any sideline funding. It would suit his purpose simply to have Miranda’s name dragged through the mud, and her toffee-nosed boyfriend with her.

‘It’s in the post, Jim. Consider it done,’ the disembodied voice confirmed. ‘Now spill.’

The easiest way to help in the by-election, Elaine decided, was to drive down early on a Monday morning, spend all day, then carry on to London in time for the ten o’clock vote. To her pleasure Karen expressed an interest for the first time. A day on the hustings could be justified as educational. Not that the college worried about attendance; it was all so different to school.

‘I’ve no idea what we’ll find when we get there, but basically we do as we’re asked, darling.’

The old Rover, bought in the first flush after the election, was sounding creaky. Maybe it was time to check out a Toyota, newly built in Britain. Elaine reflected how complicated the world had become since her childhood. She glanced at Karen, who seemed relaxed and happy, twisting to make the seat belt comfortable.

‘Yeah, I don’t mind. What d’you have to say on the doorstep, Mum? I don’t really know enough to argue politics with people.’

‘That’s true for most of the canvassers, so don’t worry about it – arguing is my job, not yours. Look, what we want is to get the maximum number of our voters out on the day. To do that, we have to identify them first. You can’t rely on the canvass for the previous general election – people go all peculiar in by-elections. What you do is smile sweetly, flash your blue rosette, say clearly who you’re representing and ask if they’re supporting us this time. If the answer is “yes”, ask them if they’ll take a poster, and make a note. If it’s “no”, skedaddle quickly. You don’t have time to hassle. It’s usually a waste of time, anyway.’

‘What if they say they don’t know?’

‘A lot of those don’t vote – probably as many as a quarter or a third of the register this time. If the most recent canvass was properly done we can judge if they’ve been ours. And that’s when you call me in, or another old-stager, while you buzz off to the next house.’

Karen was intrigued. ‘Are you good at converting them, Mum?’

Elaine chuckled. ‘I try! Sometimes the very fact that someone has called is enough to jog them out of their apathy, especially if it’s a face from the telly. But if I seem to be getting stuck, come and fetch me. The dirtiest trick in the book is the confirmed opposition supporter who’ll say he’s “not sure”, solely to keep the canvasser talking. I used to do it myself in Barham when you were little – kept a Labour chap going for half an hour one night, then told him he’d failed to convince me and I’d be voting Green. He was so upset I thought he was going to cry. Rotten thing to do.’

Karen giggled. ‘Cruel world, isn’t it?’

Her mother shrugged. ‘Isn’t it just. If today puts you off, I’d be half sad, and half happy. But it’s good to have you with me.’

Campaign headquarters had moved to a vacant shop in Hambridge High Street following complaints from Milton Conservative Club members that their car park was always full and that a man could not sup a quiet pint on a Friday night without having every unguarded remark plastered over the Sunday papers. The shop was easy to find, its windows festooned with posters. A large bunch of blue and white balloons left over from a ministerial walkabout in the town centre had been tied above the door; blown about, several had burst and remnants flapped limply in the wind. One of the posters had been defaced with an obscene remark over Marcus’s name. A Land Rover was parked in front, also decorated: this must be the battle-bus, laden with handouts. Elaine wondered why it wasn’t out and about, in use, at eleven o’clock on a Monday morning.

It was a cold, windy day, not the best weather for doorstepping. The two women fastened coat and jacket, checked gloves, pens, rosettes, handkerchiefs and clipboards, and headed into the shop.

Mary Morgan was ready to weep. It was not her fault that the canvass cards for the best ward had disappeared, though since the ward chairman had defected to the Liberals he had probably taken them with him. It was not her fault, either, that the local party was not properly computerised so that printing out a fresh set of cards was proving beyond her, nor that the photocopier kept breaking down – there had never been the money to replace it. If the powers that be, these exasperating types from Smith Square, wanted a posh modern office they should provide the money. But if they were so darned clever, she thought savagely as she kicked the reluctant machines, how come they ran up an overdraft of nineteen million pounds? At least Milton and Hambridge was solvent. The comparison comforted her and she calmed down momentarily, as Elaine and Karen entered.

‘Hello, I’m Elaine Stalker.’ Elaine held out her hand.

‘Yes – yes, I know who you are.’ Mary was puzzled.

‘Weren’t you expecting me? Central Office asked for volunteers and I told them I’d be coming today. This is my daughter.’ The office appeared to be empty except for Mary. The only sound came from a rackety printer. Piles of dusty paper lay on chairs, in corners, on tables. Full ashtrays left over from Saturday had not been cleared. Dirty coffee-mugs filled a sink, empty drink-cans overflowed from a plastic-lined bin. The air was stale.

‘Yes, they did send us a list. It’s here somewhere.’ Mary gestured vaguely behind her. ‘Mr Carey’s gone with Mr Freemantle to the station to meet Mr Dickson, the Cabinet Minister, who’s speaking at a lunchtime rally.’ She added accusingly, it’s a bit early.’

It was news to Elaine that Roger was in the area. When she had seen him the previous week he had not mentioned the fact, but such visits were often arranged at only a few days’ notice.

‘Well, since I am here, what would you like me to do? Have you finished all your canvassing? Perhaps I could call on some doubtfuls. I could catch the rest of the team up at lunchtime.’

‘Canvassing – no, we’re nowhere near finished. I think we’re about halfway.’

Elaine was astonished. ‘Ten days to go, all those extra helpers, and still loads to do? Never mind. Perhaps you could give me a map and some cards. How about a guide, somebody who knows the area and the issues likely to crop up?’ She waited expectantly.

Mary sighed and looked helpless, ‘I’m afraid … there’s only me here at the moment and I can’t leave.’

Elaine was getting cross. ‘Isn’t there somebody you could phone?’ She pointed and left unspoken the question whether this singularly useless person could use one correctly.

Mary picked up the flavour of annoyance and did as she was bid. A moment later she reported happily that Mr d’Abo was on his way, and offered a cup of coffee, apologising that there was no milk.

It was another twenty minutes before the warrior band was ready. With Karen in the back Elaine settled behind the wheel of the Rover. She turned to Dominic. ‘Now, do you want to direct me?’ she asked politely.

‘Me? I haven’t the faintest idea. I’m as new to the area as you are.’ Dominic was very grumpy indeed at being pulled away. Marcus wanted a press release for lunchtime and it would be late, all because this jumped-up backbencher was insisting on an escort. He couldn’t be expected to be everywhere at once.

After several false turns they found the area allocated to them, parked the car and started. The smart half of the ward proved barren ground; almost everybody was out except for a Swedish au pair and a forgetful old lady who assured her she would be voting for Sir Nigel Boswood as usual. Somewhat discouraged Elaine turned her attention to the lower end of the ward, where tight clumps of terraced council housing looked more promising territory. In her own patch she attracted much support from workaday voters in streets like this. Karen was blue with cold and Dominic was snuffling. Nevertheless there didn’t seem to be much else to do for the next half-hour except plod on, turning coat collars up against the drizzle.

A corner house had an inner light on and a new BMW parked in its carport. Its smart front door indicated a purchased council house, a likely source of support. Dominic was pushed up the path while Elaine and Karen carried on. The next four houses produced five ‘Don’t knows’ and two antis, though to Elaine’s relief their preference was Labour. The morning was proving unduly depressing.

It was not for several minutes that the women realised that Dominic had disappeared. As they retraced their steps, it became apparent that he had got no further than the first house, and must have made the cardinal mistake of accepting an invitation to enter.

The doorbell chimed a version of
Eine Kleine Nachtmusik
as Karen and Elaine shivered on the doorstep. Over their heads a red lamp was switched on, casting a warm glow in the gloomy day. The door swung open. On the threshold stood a tall blonde in tight black leather, a short skirt revealing tanned thighs, the top in the form of a buttoned sleeveless waistcoat emphasising a size 44
embonpoint
billowing over the top. Behind her the hall was cream and plush with a pink shag-pile carpet. A Russell Flint print of half-naked girls adorned a space at the bottom of the stairs.

‘More of them! Come in, come in,’ warbled the blonde, and stood to one side. Elaine hesitated as Karen stared goggle-eyed. ‘You’re Mrs Stalker, aren’t you? Come on in, just for a minute. We’re voters too, you know.’

That being undeniable, Elaine took a deep breath and followed her down the hallway. The sound of merriment assailed her. She turned into the living room with red walls and a black ceiling, its curtains drawn against the light. And there the luckless Dominic was splayed out on a red velvet sofa, a look of terror on his face. Beside him perched on the arm was a black girl wearing thigh-length shiny boots, a red lace G-string and a diminutive red bra, who sipped a cocktail and stroked his hair. The room was viciously hot. A sallow man with a proprietorial air and a thin moustache was smoking from a long cigarette holder. In the corner stood a television and a stack of videos. Dominic, brow beaded with sweat, was clinging to his clipboard as if to his virtue.

Elaine blinked, then took brisk charge. ‘Good morning, ladies, sir. We are canvassing for Marcus Carey, the Conservative candidate. Now there are, let me see’ – she examined the clipboard in Dominic’s stiff fingers –’five voters here, four ladies, one man. We’d like to know if you’ll be voting for us?’

‘He don’t live here – lives off us and on us, but not in the chicken run.’ The black girl gestured to the man, who wagged an admonitory finger. ‘You can’t talk to the other girls – they’re resting. Good business last night. We all take an interest, though. Pity about that poor man, Nigel Boswood. He should’ve come to us. We’d have sorted him out, wouldn’t we?’