The 1983 General Election was a
milestone. It confirmed the Tories as ‘the Party of Government
‘for the foreseeable future. It determined suits and heels
(pussy bow optional) as the uniform for women politicians; party
notwithstanding. And it changed her life irrevocably.
Although she didn’t know it at the
time.
By June 9th 1983, she had
lived for almost a year in Binley village near Gridchester with a
husband, a daughter and a dog.
‘Village’ was a misnomer for the
down at heel corridor linking Gridchester and Fairway with its
handful of shops, pubs and small station. It boasted a playing field
for dog walking; good transport links (she could not drive) and
inexpensive housing. Their Victorian terrace was a bargain – and
the source of much quiet satisfaction when she needed to boost her
spirits.
Which was most of the time because
she was not happy.
She was not unhappy. The white heat of
pain occasioned by Paul’s desertion recurred intermittently if at
all, as a type of dull ache with little of its former intensity.
Vanessa and Splosh made welcome replacements for Ursula, Verity, Jack
and Perdita, because they were hers – and the others were not.
Away from Chudleigh, the Truscotts and the Chases, Paul was
tractable; most of the time. It helped that his school (although fee
paying ) was not a boarding establishment with endlessly probing
tentacles – and the fact that Nicola was not to be spotted
rounding a corner at any hour of the day or night was a positive
bonus.
But it was a grey world and as such,
unsuited to a vermilion person....
She missed her job.
Since January 1983, she had worked as a
temporary lecturer at Gridchester College of Further Education,
although ‘lecturer,’ like ‘village’ was a misnomer. Her
students had, in the main, failed at school and were repeating ‘O’
level English Language. Some were studying English alongside Music
Technology and Computing Science. It was a job and helped to finance
clothes, food and budget holidays It paid for Vanessa’s new nanny,
Christine. It got her out of the house.
It was a job and not a career. She
hated it.
GC’s base was an ugly
1960s office-style block with lots of glass and stairs and external
porches where students smoked and loitered between classes.
She had a small locker in
the ‘staff area’ but there was no sense of an English Department;
colleagues came and went and then were not there any more. The
majority had short-term contracts like her and there was no
opportunity to progress beyond courteous exchanges at the beginning
and end of the day.
By June 1983, the
questionable pleasure of setting and marking comprehension exercises
was wearing thin; when there were any to mark, because a good number
of students left before the second half of term and were not
replaced. An A level Literature adult education class provided some
job satisfaction, but a solitary swallow makes neither a summer nor a
career.
It was better than
nothing –but not much.
Attitudes towards working
women in northern England circa 1983 were prehistoric. Or at least,
working mothers.
Her qualifications were
excellent and Andrew Penn had written a superb reference, but as soon
as potential Head Teachers in the vicinity of Gridchester knew that
she had a baby; a career post was out of the question.
If she had given birth
once, she might do it again and then there would be all the
inconvenience and expense of maternity leave and (worse still)
maternity pay. Far better to employ good old Joseph (married,
two children, stay-at-home-wife) or Isobel (empty nester, husband a
doctor).
Such qualms were
irrelevant to the Principal at GC who was happy to employ yet another
woman on a short term contract (and short money). No-one stayed long
but vacancies were soon filled. Here today, gone tomorrow and
everyone happy!
It was the battery-hen
level of teaching.
Paul by contrast was, as
her father observed, as happy as a pig in muck. Fairway
Grammar School enjoyed a prestigious reputation and an academic
record that dwarfed the social claims of Chudleigh.
It was an achievement to
lead its English Department and Paul was not going to let anybody
forget it – especially Donald and Gillian, who were invited to stay
at the earliest opportunity. She had not been enthusiastic, but Paul
was adamant and there was nothing for it but a metaphorical girding
of the loins.
The weekend got off to a
poor start. Donald had taken a wrong turning and they were
disgruntled – especially Susan who had stuffed herself on the
journey only to deposit the contents of her stomach in the downstairs
toilet on arrival. After the obligatory house tour, Paul dismissed
her frantic eye signals and spirited his brother off to The Duke of
Clarence for a swift half.
The Duke of Clarence,
Paul’s pub of choice (or necessity, because Binley boasted but two)
had more in common with The Fleece at Necker’s than the Falcon at
Dorlich. Her own view of The Duke matched her opinion of The Fleece,
but Paul was thoroughly at home, donning greatcoat, flat cap and army
boots and puffing at a briar pipe with gusto.
The patrons of the pub
had nothing in common with Percy, Frances Hunt and the Truscotts;
apart from a penchant for alcohol. They would have been required to
use the tradesm0n’s entrance at Chudleigh - which was
appropriate, because that is what they were.
Paul’s new drinking
companions were refuse collectors (binners) from the Council;
shop-floor workers from the local spice factory, and odd-jobbers
who supplemented the dole with casual farm labouring; stints at car
boot sales and back pocket cash from poaching.
They were neither salt
of the earth northerners nor horny handed sons of toil.
Their female appendages
supplied food, sex and cleaning and were taken to darts matches and
shows at the Working Man’s Club. They earned pin money by
running catalogues or childminding and sometimes encountered brick
walls and sported bruises. When one left, with or without the
children, a replacement was generally in situ within a fortnight.
Paul was in his element;
academia and its trimmings at work; dumbing down via fancy dress and
an assumed northern accent at home. He swam with ease between two
social milieus. She did not.
It was small consolation
to reflect that Donald, in sports jacket, neatly pressed slacks
and Italian loafers would have shared her unease, shifting
from buttock to buttock in The Duke; suspecting that his brother’s
unsavoury companions were laughing at him. Anything would have been
preferable to the kitchen chats with Gillian whilst preparing
the evening meals.
The kitchen was her first
Waterloo; it was little more than a scullery and could not stand
comparison with Gillian’s palatial avocado-tiled glory, complete
with Aga and hostess trolley.
The inadequacies of her
kitchen naturally segued into the inferiority of the food cooked
within its premises – the bouef bourguignon – such a
wonderful dish if you don’t want to do anything too complicated
and the expensive cheeses – not everyone has the time to
make profiteroles, but I’m quite famous for them in Picks Norton –
old habits!!
And if these and similar
conversational sallies might be ignored, the fact that her Christmas
present from Gillian, year on year was a variant on French Cookery
for Beginners could not.
Vanessa’s presence,
asleep or awake, did nothing to stem the torrent of information
about Nicola and the kiddies and an unconscionable number of
Donald and Gillian’s Picks Norton friends appeared to be in the
throes of adultery or divorce: Terribly sad; of course Nemone was
devastated and has taken him back – but he’ll never change –
that sort never does…..I’m afraid she’s made her bed…..
And this was before the
barbs about her little job, her weight (sometimes those
pregnancy love handles are there to stay!) and Gridchester itself
(it’s very NORTHERN isn’t it?).
I thought that went
remarkably well said Paul, after farewell kisses had been
exchanged and Donald was ensconced behind the wheel for the return
journey.
Of course, Doz made a
prat of himself in The Duke – they thought he was a poof because he
was downing spritzers! Maybe he is a poof – what do you think?!
laughing merrily en route to the hostelry.
It was easier not to…
Vanessa ate and grew and
Nanny Christine who arrived on the dot of 7.30am and left at 5pm,
Monday – Friday was an asset when Vanessa contracted whooping cough
at 10 months. She was practical, pleasant and local with a friendly
extended family and a nice boyfriend who had recently set up in
business as a plumber.
Apart from a level of
maintenance payments that prohibited anything other than cheap French
gite holidays, Paul appeared to have forgotten the existence of
Ursula, Verity, Jack and Perdita and was now father of one daughter
and owner of one dog.
She had wanted him to
love Vanessa and the sight of her husband holding a gurgling baby up
to a Paul Klee poster in the living room: There was a fish
and a dragon and a walrus! And Sinbad the sailor, IN HIS LITTLE
BOAT!!!
was proof of that,
surely?
But she did not like the
fact that for Paul, three children in another part of the country had
now ceased to exist. The thought that she did not choose to
articulate was that if he could forget about Ursula, he could
forget about Vanessa... She began to write letters to the
children; lively, newsy epistles about the house and the dog; their
father and half sister.
Conscience letters
Years later, Nicola told
her that when Ursula saw by the handwriting on the envelope that the
letters were from her, rather than Paul, they remained unopened.
Perhaps it was just as
well…
At half term, Paul
decamped to Cambridge for his regular visit to the Colleges; tweaking
‘contacts’ with the aim of opening doors for the Fairway
English Literature applicants.
It was surprising what a
word in the ear of an Admissions Tutor could do in advance of a
candidate sitting the Entrance Examination, and she marvelled at the
naivety of her own teachers, who had assumed that Oxbridge
scholarships were a reward for excellence rather than a trinket in
the gift of a particularly grubby type of behind scenes insider
trading owing much to ‘influence’ and little to ability.
Paul, whose own Third
was never mentioned outside the house (despite being one of her
favourite reference points during marital arguments) organised these
trips with military precision; wheedling accommodation and dinners
out of a web of academic contacts. Rigorous forward planning ensured
that he rarely paid the price of a drink or a meal and his assiduous
name-dropping about High Table at Corpus with Professors X and Y
had the salutary effect of enhancing his credentials as a guest at
academic jollies on home turf.
She was never invited
to accompany him.
It was, in any case, a
chance to invite Lynne to stay. Lynne and Paul did not get on and,
after Vanessa’s birth, the pretence that they did was quietly
shelved by all. She visited Lynne on her own; Lynne returned the
visit in Paul’s absence; they spoke on the telephone when Paul was
at the pub – or at Fairway - or just out.
Lynne’s visit at the
beginning of May 1983 coincided with the run-up to the 1983 General
Election.
They slipped into the old
groove easily enough, but (there was no denying it) they moved in
different worlds and the shared reference point; Dorlich circa 73-77
was beginning to acquire the patina of a distant era. Christine
babysat, and they spent the last day shopping in Gridchester prior to
a meal in the new pizzeria, Geppetto’s.
Lynne spent the last
day shopping
The overflowing carrier
bags spilled into the aisle and she suppressed an unworthy desire for
one of the waiters – dressed in an absurd Don Corleone
costume – to trip and decorate the perky little suits from Benetton
with spaghetti carbonara.
Her meal.
Lynne was picking at a
light salad caprese and if she ate like that every day it was
not surprising that she was a standard size eight in every shop. The
white jeans and trendily distressed leather bomber jacket looked
exactly right for the high flying executive with a new pixie haircut
and a studio flat in Islington. Her own yellow flying suit looked
exactly what it was – the adoption of a fleeting fashion trend, by
a mother with weight to conceal and little to spend.
It was not fucking
fair.
As usual, Lynne avoided
direct mention of Paul but confessed to being ‘on the loose’
after her two year relationship with Joe had reached its natural
conclusion. Not that she seemed unduly perturbed; work was consuming
every waking hour and she was preparing for her Senior Civil
Service Interview Board, prior to a year’s secondment to the
Climate Change division of a City Insurance giant.
The thought of the
English Language retake group at GC was unbearable - why oh why had
she chucked the PHD place; why had she taken Paul back?
Why had she gone out
with him in the first place?
And as for Sandra,
continued Lynne, no – really – one piece is fine thanks
(spurning the bread
basket)
She might as well be
dead! Maybe she is dead!
(Although that was
unlikely; Sandra Milford had a habit of recurring when least expected
and in the most peculiar places).
I bet she’s still
with that bloke – you know, that wet drip she works for at
Biscuits? I think she screwed him on the last day of THE HOLIDAY
FROM HELL – she stayed out all night – although, rather her than
me; he looked as if he’d have really nasty damp hands – and after
we got back I just didn’t see her. At all! Typical bloody Sandra!
It was typical of Sandra.
For the duration of the Potts romance, she had been completely off
radar, in geisha mode with bound feet, only to come slithering
back, making a third everywhere they went, after he ditched her.
They sipped espresso,
laughing nastily. The delicious dénouement of the Potts affair was
always guaranteed to warm the heart.
That – and three
large amarettos – after which the world seemed much friendlier
and she decided not to sue for divorce after all……
Twenty four hours after
Paul’s return, the divorce option was, once again, viable.
His Cambridge week had
been wonderful; he had emptied the new and second hand bookshops; the
dinners were to die for and he was considering applying for a
schoolmaster sabbatical!
And he had bought a black
fedora hat –which I must wear to The Duke – Fatty Hodges will
die! kissing Vanessa and waving cheerily as he set off for the
pub at a brisk trot, accompanied by an excited Splosh on the lead.
He had not bought her
a present
She poured herself a
glass of red – bugger the diet – what was the point? He wouldn’t
notice if she dressed in one of Fatty Hodges’ bin-liners, contents
included.
The door bell rang and
Vanessa clapped her hands. It was a ridiculous baa baa-black-
sheep chime which had seemed fun a million years ago.
She opened the door upon
a middle-aged couple wearing matching red cagoules and clutching
Election literature. The Election was in three weeks’ time.
Something about their
earnest, hang-dog expressions and cagoules (how pathetic can you get
– red waterproofs!!) irritated her, just as she always felt
affronted by the unsought-for visits from Mormons and Jehovah’s
Witnesses.
And so she began.
Twenty minutes later,
having treated them to a potted history of the Party and her family’s
involvement in it since its inception in the 1890s, castigating their
complete failure to make impact in Binley; the wilful arrogance of
assuming that voters in her street would naturally support the Tories
and the woeful performance of the national leadership, she assured
them that yes, she would indeed be voting for the Party as per
usual. They scuttled off down the path and she retuned to her
drink, with the sensation of a job well done.
Of course, she had been
economical with the actualite.
She had always voted for
the Party – except for 1979 when it mattered.
The thrills and spills of
her relationship with Paul had obscured the basic necessities of life
– such as filling in voter registration forms. She had forgotten,
and polling night 1979 found her disenfranchised; holed up at Percy’s
ghastly Election bash and eating smoked salmon cornets in the
midst of a nest of Tories.
Percy’s sterling
qualities were obscured by his bumper blue rosette and apart from
Philippa Truscott who had defiantly voted for the Liberal candidate;
the guests might have been disporting themselves at the Triumph of a
Roman Emperor. Every now and again, a pundit from one of the three
main parties would loom into view on the giant television screen and
Percy proclaimed a particularly repulsive Tory grandee to be a
wonderful chap – knew him at Oxford – coming man – LOTS OF
BOTTOM!!!
A major sexual scandal
featuring this individual shortly after the 1983 General Election
proved that he had rather too much bottom…..but that was a
separate matter and the general point was that she had failed to vote
in 1979 and thus considered herself to be unpleasantly implicated in
the unfortunate outcome.
Once bitten, twice
shy.
She began to watch the
television Election coverage with a dedication bordering upon
obsession – to the amusement and then irritation of Paul. Evenings
followed a strict pattern:
Home from GC; feed and
bath Vanessa; feed Splosh; prepare the evening meal; story for
Vanessa and then bed.
ITN News; News at 6;
Channel 4 News; BBC News at 9; News at 10; debates; pundit programmes
– and the same again the next night, accompanied by a bottle of
Rocamar and Silk Cut cigarettes from the Off Licence across the
road.
The presence of the
General Election in the house forced Paul to take up nightly
residence in The Duke.
She did not care.
Twenty-nine years later,
this General Election with its ageing Leader; the longest suicide
note in history; battle buses and disastrous result, remained
more real to her than her own victories and near miss defeat.
One of the television
stations accompanied its Election coverage with full frontal shots of
the battle buses and theme music from the series FAME.
As time ticked by; the
strains of this song and shots of the Leader, looking more and more
like Laurence Olivier in the TV production of King Lear, struck
an increasingly tragic note.
I can catch the moon
in my hands Don’t you know who I am…?
And she had a horrible
shock on the eve of poll to see none other than her old bonk
(boyfriend would be stretching the truth), Derek Kingsmill, being
interviewed as one of a group of candidates at risk of losing
formerly rock-solid seats.
Lowerbridge was about 40
miles away from Gridchester; it was weird to think that Derek
Kingsmill was at present, not a million miles away from her house and
even worse to discover that his intrepid regional interviewer was
none other than her two nights’ stand ( boyfriend would be
stretching the truth), Robbie Nantwich!
At first glimpse (and her
eyes were fixed to the screen as if by indelible thread) they had not
changed.
Both men were young (31)
and both had fashionably collar length hair. But Robbie’s angular
features were complemented beautifully by a well – cut deep maroon
velvet jacket and Derek looked distinctly pudgy – as if he
was recovering from mumps or toothache.
His voice was squeaky and
he kept clearing his throat; erhum, erhum, in between
desperate attempts to make an assertion that he expected to increase
the 18,000 majority, sound credible.
And there they were,
on the television. And here she was ……watching them…..
On Election Day, after
her stint at GC; she came home, bathed and put on a bright red tee
shirt underneath her denim dungarees. Then, leaving Vanessa with
Christine, she walked to cast her vote at the Primary School turned
Polling Station.
She was near to tears.
The result was going to
be disastrous; her vote in Binley would be like a grain of sand in a
Tory desert – whereas in Dorlich, 79, it might have made a
difference. The sight of her two cagoule callers, wilting bravely
amidst the over-fed, paunchy Tories was unbearable.
Why did they have to
be so pathetic – and wimpish? Why did they have to lose?
She walked up to them and
gave them a shortened version of her doorstep lecture. The male
cagoule person looked at her and said:
Well why not join us,
love? Make that ‘difference’ you’ve told us about!
And handed her a
membership form.
She took, it, voted,
walked home. Paul, who had voted Tory earlier in the day, was at the
pub.
The Tories won a
landslide, and the MP for Gridchester North increased his majority
by 14,000. Derek Kingsmill entered Parliament for the first time
with a majority of 1,780.
She bought Irene Cara’s
version of Fame and played it obsessively:
I’m gonna make it to
heaven
Light up the sky like
a flame
Fame
I’m gonna live
forever
Baby remember my name
Remember.
And she completed the
membership form and posted it, using a first class stamp.
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