The role of Applications Secretary was
less onerous that she had feared, because Gridchester North proved to
be predictably unappealing to ambitious Party hopefuls.
The seat had been advertised locally,
regionally and in national communications, but her letterbox was of
interest to no one but Splosh, who enjoyed impersonating a Rottweiler
at a set time on a daily basis.
In vain she explained that the family
dog was a softie with ideas above his station, but the postman
was not to be dissuaded and took to leaving his wares in a neat pile
on the doorstep.
It did not contain a wealth of
applications for Gridchester North.
With two days before shut-down, only
three intrepid individuals had thrown their hats into the ring.
The first, as expected, was the 1983
candidate, Austin Cox. Cox was a perfectly acceptable and respectable
barrister; specialising in company law with chambers in London.
In his mid sixties, he was a solid
Party man (and donor) who had no wish to leave a lucrative career for
the ignominious life of a backbencher.
He was however keen to do his bit,
by flying the Party flag in an unwinnable seat.
Rhiannon Knight was his polar opposite.
Aged 26, she was really Lady
Rhiannon Knight, but studying at the LSE had led her to
sacrifice a life of privilege (excepting, of course, her monthly
parental allowance and Trust Fund) for dedication to the struggle.
She now served on one of the London
loony left bodies and had persuaded the Education Authority to
proscribe the teaching of the novels of DH Lawrence and Conrad on
grounds of overt racist and sexist content.
The third applicant was Brian Pelleroe.
It was an underwhelming list; a ringing
endorsement of Norris Farmer’s pessimism.
The stage was therefore set for a brief
Selection Committee meeting to shortlist all applicants and determine
arrangements for a Hustings Conference when party members would have
the opportunity of listening to and voting for, the candidates of
their choice.
The candidate who obtained 50% of the
vote plus one would be duly anointed as the Party’s champion in
Gridchester North.
The Selection Committee meeting was
convened and Christine had been booked to babysit from 8.30pm onwards
because it was her wedding anniversary.
Paul had secured a table for two at the
trendy fish restaurant overlooking the Floribunda Gardens in
Gridchester and she was looking forward to it.
The Secret Shell with its funky
décor and crashing wave sound effects was expensive; usually beyond
their budget, but worth every penny. The Dover sole was superb
and she had never tasted such exquisite skate outside France.
Also, she and Paul had survived
their rocky patch and were now sailing in much calmer marital waters.
Since the Nuttalls’ party sounded the
last hurrah for the Fairway sixth form play, home life had been
remarkably harmonious.
Paul’s initiative in reporting the
peculiar telephone calls to the supplier had borne fruit and they
were spending more time together as a family.Once again, a romantic
break a deux was on the cards, and the heavy silver bracelet
that she had received from her husband as an anniversary gift was
both unexpected and tasteful
He had even thought to arrange a
hand-made card from Vanessa and a bunch of flowers from Richard!
But as she picked out a becoming black
cotton shift dress (acceptable for the meeting and yet smart enough
for the restaurant) she had a sense of foreboding that for
once, was nothing to do with her husband.
Paul had made the children their
favourite tea; peanut butter sandwiches followed by chocolate
Angel Delight, and had officiated at Richard’s bath time:
successfully, judging from the laughter floating down the stairs.
She had no complaints on that score.
Her unease was due to a last-minute
application for the Gridchester North seat that she wished had got
lost in the post.
She walked through the door of the St
John’s Ambulance hut to find Norris Farmer preparing to chair the
Selection meeting.
He had no interest in Gridchester North
or its candidate and every reason to hope that the short-listing
process would be a rubber-stamping affair. Short of condoning a
convicted criminal, he would have approved any candidate currently
resident in the United Kingdom who was literate and numerate. A name
on the ballot paper was required; a name would be supplied. Job
done.
Far more worrying was the situation in
Lowerbridge, where the troublesome Red Heart sect had
infiltrated the local Party and was threatening to unseat Derek
Kingsmill.
In fact, there was a potentially
explosive Party meeting in Lowerbridge later that evening, and his
presence was essential to head off a vote of No Confidence in the MP.
Time wasted on Gridchester was time
stolen from Lowerbridge and his peremptory clicking noises signalled
that comrades should come to attention.
As she took the vacant seat between
Hazel and Martin Sweet, she noticed that the usual suspects had
been augmented by two less familiar faces. She had met Lester and
Chantelle Beech at one of Maureen Booth’s fundraising events.
Maureen was the widow of Melvin; a
miner and staunch trade unionist, one of the Grichester party’s
folk heroes and a former constituency official.
Prior to her husband’s death from
lung cancer, Mrs Booth had been content to stay in the background,
offering support at the polling station on election days but had now
re-invented herself as a fund-raiser.
Her efforts were not lavish; a
fish'n'chip supper here, a quiz evening there – but they paid the
bills and the bric-a-brac car boot sale outside The Duke was intended
to finance an introductory leaflet for the Gridchester North
parliamentary candidate.
Paul had absolutely refused to load the
boot of his car with tat and attempt to sell it to Duke
regulars like Fatty and Mick, so she joined Hazel and Martin who had
loaded their car with half-decent junk from the garage.
The Beeches and their son Darren
occupied the slot next to the green Renault and she noticed that
their van, emblazoned on the door with the slogan:
YOU CAN’T BEAT BEECH
followed by contact details of the
family electrical business, contained wares of a very specific
nature.
Sony stereo systems; Matsushita
video recorders and popular films to play on the system that were
not yet available for sale or rent, typified the goods on offer, and
all appeared to be new rather than second-hand.
Not surprisingly, the crowds
surrounding the Beech van ignored the likes of Hazel’s perfectly
pleasant willow-pattern china teapot, and after four hours of dogged
endurance, it was decided that the tally of precisely £22.65
would have to do.
The Beeches, by contrast, left with an
empty van –having disposed of its entire contents in the space of
two hours.
It was a surprise to discover at the
next Party meeting that the total profit from the car boot sale had
been a disappointing £172. 98.
Those video recorders might have had
wings the way they were flying out of the van! she observed to
Gail who was now deputising as Treasurer for the absent Clare
Butcher.
Were they giving them away?
I doubt it very much, replied
Gail.
They donated precisely £50 of their
takings, saying that the rest of the money covered the costs of ‘Our
Darren’ rigging up a sound system and paying the band for the
Christmas disco.
It’s all lies – they’ve just
used the Party for a car boot slot to flog ‘back of a lorry’
stuff. But what can we do? We’ve only just got over Ron Butcher!
The idea that the Party been exploited
by three of its members as cover for the sale of stolen goods was
deplorable, and when she was informed that the path of least
resistance was chosen because Lester Beech was suspected of having
at least one spent conviction for violence and could get nasty, she
was simply appalled.
And here were the Beeches, sitting
at the right hand of Norris Farmer on the Selection Committee,
smirking and winking smugly.
It was detestable.
Norris, who was determined to wind up
business as soon as possible, rattled through the section of the Rule
Book entitled: The Selection of Parliamentary Candidates,
suggested that Gridchester Little Theatre would be an
appropriate venue for the Hustings and final vote and proposed that
all three candidates be invited to attend on a date to be decided,
one month from today.
And that should be all, he
pronounced, rising to his feet and no doubt musing that the
determination of a candidate shortlist in 12 minutes flat, was
something of a personal record.
She looked at her feet and coughed. It
was now or never.
There has been, she said,
producing a brown A4 envelope
another application. It came before
noon on the cut-off day, so it has to be considered – and it’s a
woman so that would mean two men and two women in terms of gender
balance? (Looking hopefully around the table).
I knew it! shouted Fred Hoy,
throwing his cap into the air and glaring triumphantly at Norris
Farmer.
I said we were being defeatist! I
KNEW that this would be just the right launch pad for a future Prime
Minister!
And who (turning to her and
smiling)
Is the brave young lady?
She took a deep breath and looked him
in the eyes.
Clare Butcher, she replied.
Norris Farmer did not to get to the
Lowerbridge meeting and Derek Kingsmill had to beat off a spirited
challenge from Red Heart without his assistance.
She did not enjoy an anniversary
dinner at The Secret Shell and suspected that the fragile
green shoots of marital recovery withered and died when she
telephoned her husband from the public bar in The Duke where they had
repaired after the meeting to inform him that something had come
up and it was totally impossible for her to get away.
She sat beside Hazel and the girls
in a corner, sipping wine in her dinner dress and
experiencing sensations of utter misery ;wondering (not for the
first time ) whether the Party really was an organisation that
she wished to belong to, support, or even vote for.
Twenty-three years later, including
her eight years as an MP, the question remained the same.
She still wanted an answer.
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