Showing posts with label Best Blessings of Existence. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Best Blessings of Existence. Show all posts

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Best Blessings of Existence 52

In which things look up for Emma B, but marital tennis is not played well.

Littlebury always got a good write up in the Best Places to Live features favoured by journalists (alongside items about celebrities with cellulite) in the August news graveyard. It won points for being quiet; unspoilt; surrounded by stunning scenery and at the same time thirty minutes from London on a fast train.

Local pubs and restaurants had character; the village green sported a charming duck pond that dried up in summer ,and Littlebury School enjoyed a national and international reputation.

This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England.

John of Gaunt would have approved.

It was just the place to retire, acquire an education, or spend your husband’s money and as she fell into none of these categories, it was prison. Gridchester, by contrast, (and especially when memories were fuelled by a second glass of amaretto) became her Atlantis; a land of milk, honey, opportunity and like that island – utterly mythical.

But there was an element of truth.

Since graduating, her experience had been that when sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions but as1988 began, good fortune, unlike lightning, struck twice.

At GC, she found herself the unexpected beneficiary of Selma Blaine’s breast cancer and early retirement.

The Principal; a skinflint of repute, calculated that it would make financial sense to pay her the extra allowance to lead Humanities. The Department would be one lecturer short – but no matter – they could all teach extra classes!

And I think you’ll find, said Alec Coverley, offering her the job, that everyone will be happy!

They weren’t; but after a month of wildcat strikes when she had to cross a makeshift picket line to get to her office, everything returned to normal; except that the extra money and additional responsibility was not normal at all.

It was utterly abnormal and she had never been happier. Perhaps she was a contender at last!

Paul’s enthusiasm was muted.

I worry, he confided to her mother, between mouthfuls of Victoria sandwich, that it’s going to be too much. She gets terribly tired as it is – isn’t that true Darling? The place is virtually a reformatory – VERY difficult kids – and then all that politicking in the evenings – something’s got to give and I fear (shooting her mother a doleful glance) that it’s going to be our two. Only yesterday Ness Ness said that she never sees Mummy (ruffling his daughter’s hair).

Oh dear, fretted her mother.

Now I don’t like the sound of that at all. No wonder Richie’s having so many tantrums. You’re never at home with him. I think you ought to work part time – at least until he starts school. Well, Paul – what about a jam tart?

This was rich coming from her mother; a woman who had returned to work as soon as was humanly possible, putting her only daughter into nursery a full term before the legal age. But Mother had morphed into Grandma and her ambition for that daughter had died with the birth of Vanessa.

She eyed the Victoria sandwich; stifling a desire to remove it from its cut glass cake stand and deposit it firmly in the middle of her husband’s face.

Her father cleared his throat and stood up from the table, brushing cake crumbs from his lap.

Very nice Flo – cake perfectly risen, eh Paul? And as for the job, let her take it (giving her a wink). At least there’s a salary – not like all that free teaching she did to help you out at Chudleigh! Now... just in time for A Question of Sport!

And he switched on the television; having launched a custard pie of the metaphorical variety at Paul and rescued the Victoria sandwich from possible annihilation. She helped her mother to wash up.

Paul did not like her new job; but apart from a few scathing comments to his family and the Nuttalls, could say little against it. Family finances were healthier; she paid a couple of the domestic bills and he had more money to squander in second hand bookshops and The Duke.
A holiday that was not to be endured in the company of mice and unspeakable insects in a French gite became a distinct possibility.

Her political fortunes likewise, were in the ascendant.

Following her letter to Duncan Musgrave, expressing serious concerns about the conduct of the Beech family, she was invited to attend for interview at The St John’s Ambulance hut.

Musgrave, flanked by two male assistants, similarly booted and suited, was an impassive figure with a hint of menace.

With no good reason, she formed the view that he disliked her and plunged into a stumbling (and she feared, unconvincing) account of Beech perfidy; the treatment of Clare Butcher – thus spawning a Tory MP in the making; the abusive drunken lunge in The Duke; the suspected black market trading and wheedling money from members to finance the nefarious operations of Red Heart.

As she was making these allegations, staring fixedly at a cracked window pane and avoiding the penetrating Musgrave stare, she became uncomfortably aware that apart from the treatment of Clare Butcher and aggression towards herself, it was just a jumble of supposition and conjecture that would never have withstood scrutiny in a court of law.

But this was not a court of law; it was a kangaroo court and her instinct was to destroy Lester Beech before he destroyed her.

Musgrave was non-committal; posed a few questions as to the precise location of the collection tin and the identity of the persons in closest proximity to it, thanked her for attending and then, by turning away and signalling to his colleagues, indicated that the interview was over.

It had been profoundly disconcerting and she reflected that on balance, writing the letter had been a mistake.

A Party meeting at The Duke was to prove pivotal.

She arrived with Gail, minus Hazel (whose attendance had declined since her separation from Martin) and Sylvia who, with husband Shaun, was suffering from shingles.

Perhaps they’re re-bonding after that Pelleroe business? suggested Gail optimistically.

She could not see that being confined to barracks, scratching sporadically next to a similarly afflicted spouse was the ideal new start for Sylvia and her husband, but nodded assent as they took their seats at a corner table.

The atmosphere matched landlady Pat’s funereal back room décor, and she noted that Duncan Musgrave was sitting at the top table, flanked by one of his Team inquisitors and a nervously twitching Fred Hoy.

A male voice bellowing swear words was audible from the main bar and she wondered which of the pub regulars had gone on a bender. Could it be Fatty? She fervently hoped that he would be banned.

It was not Fatty.

Duncan Musgrave apologised for the fact that Lester Beech had created a disturbance after being refused entrance. The assistance of the police had been necessary but (opening the door and peering round tentatively) he could say that the matter had now been dealt with.

After all, the Beech family were no longer members of the Party and could not be allowed to attend meetings.

He trusted that business would now be conducted in an open and transparent manner, after a successful Inquiry that had rooted out the rotten apples in Gridchester and elsewhere. Members who had assisted this process had performed a great service to the Party and their contribution to our politics would not be forgotten.


Fancy – Chair of the Party! enthused Sylvia.

And Gail the proper Secretary instead of pencil-sharpening for Peabody. This is a feminist revolution!

They were waiting to be served in the new vegetarian restaurant at The Jasmine Bay hotel after an invigorating sauna in the adjoining health club. The Malmsey Head evenings had been replaced by more varied pursuits at Hazel’s insistence; swimming; the odd yoga class (a disaster – whatever the lotus position was, it was a stretch too far); a women only book club at the cooperative, and now this.

Hazel had purchased tickets for next month’s all – female production of Macbeth (from a radical lesbian perspective) and everything was very different and uniquely dull. Since dispensing with Martin, the fish and the weight, she had become a fully paid up member of the Health Police and their outings had turned into a contest to see who could manage to sneak an extra glass of wine without incurring a disapproving lecture.

As Sylvia said:

Hazel was more fun when she was fat.

The strictures of Hazel Sweet (now Kendall; Hazel had reverted to her maiden name) notwithstanding; her own new role as Chair of the Gridchester North Party had come as a fait accompli.

After the Beech purges, Fred Hoy resigned and Duncan Musgrave gave a strong hint that the local Party (as evinced by the shocking abuse of Clare Butcher) was less than woman-friendly.

As Musgrave stressed ( tapping a flip chart by way of illustration), the socio economic priorities of Gridchester Girl were the key to electoral success; but the female component of the Gridchester Party was decidedly out of sync with the voting sisters.

This was a firm steer to elect a woman Chair; but the entrenched Party culture had attracted involvement from the wrong sort of women.

Maureen Booth and Cheryl Smithers were more suited to parties of the Tupperware variety and when Sian Norfolk (a student at GC) proposed her as Chair, there were no objections. Gail became Secretary; Hazel; Women’s Officer and Laurence Fernyclough Treasurer and token male.

The flower of manhood had been vanquished by the petticoat revolution

Not with a bang but with a whimper.

Paul greeted her elevated status with the usual irony and took to dubbing her Madame Mao; but many a true word is spoken in jest and the next six months ushered in a cultural revolution for the Gridchester Party.

We must start as we mean to go on!

pronounced Hazel, opening her briefcase and propping up the menu with a filofax.

And I’d recommend the falafel and adzuki bean salad – filling but not fattening if you get my drift!

Unfortunately, they did; exchanging glances and yearning for The Balti Bowl and its pickle tray. Freed from the shackles of pandering to Martin’s limited palate, Hazel might have been expected to embark upon a gastronomic splurge of gargantuan proportions – but had merely replaced the austerity of corned beef and tinned vegetables with dried pulses and all things wholemeal.

She had ordered a new range of vegetarian cookery books for the cooperative and the collected works of Rose Elliot had replaced the familiar tomes of Linda McCartney with their trademark vegetarian sausages. It was all very worthy and Hazel certainly looked good on it, but her heart was with Sylvia who commented trenchantly:

Life is too short to soak a chickpea; anything longer than five minutes under the grill and the kids create mayhem.

There was nothing for it but a secret binge on Geppetto’s pasta Alfredo with extra cream when Hazel left for work at the bookshop. The consumption of a second plate of garlic bread induced predictable feelings of guilt and when they left (after a very decent Chianti) each was a passionate advocate of The Kendall Plan to re-shape the Gridchester Party.

Paul initially balked at her proposed financial outlay on a word processor and answerphone and, not for the first time, she resented their joint bank account.

The necessity of destroying the monthly statement before her husband could deplore her regular expenditure at Next, Laura Ashley and Benetton was wearing – especially when such strictures did not apply to his own indulgence at antiquarian bookshops and visits to the Oxbridge colleges.

She also resented the expenditure from pooled finances that did not appear in any official document – on his secret stash – purchased from some source in Fairway and indulged, like a Victorian with snuff; at the end of an evening.

It was time to resort to desperate measures via a quick revision of The Joy of Sex by Alex Comfort, but reprieve came in the unexpected form of her father in law.
Eric had signed a lucrative contract to write for The Gas; a sell-out paper, known contemptuously as The Comic by everyone from its Editor to the tea lady.

However, despite a decided aversion to words of more than one syllable, The Gas demanded a phenomenal work rate and Deirdre’s daisy-wheel typewriter was no longer fit for purpose.
So Eric embraced the technological revolution and became, at the age of 69, the proud possessor of a word processor and a cordless telephone system with separate answering machine.

Paul followed suit a week later.

Persuading the comrades to relinquish the St John’s Ambulance hut and The Duke for the women and children friendly environs of the Gridchester Community Centre was more difficult.

The union contingent – and even Shaun Mills and Ned Pitt - craved their pint in The Duke – and the proximity of The Duke for their pint - after meetings in the hut.
Neither was there a general clamour for the gender balanced child minding rota to enable women to attend meetings; or the insistence that crèche facilities be a pre-requisite of any venue booked for a special event.

But by far the most venom was directed at the new Women’s Society hosted by Hazel in her flat above the cooperative bookshop. Here, women members met to devise women-friendly policies; support potential women candidates for Party positions and local elections and recruit more women members.

It was a far remove from the Tupperware culture.

Duncan Musgrave was a fan.

The other men were not – including her husband.

Paul was not a Party member, but he was Chair, Secretary and Treasurer of the Lord and Master Federation - an organisation that required wives to grace the bedroom, kitchen and nursery instead of abandoning the hearth in favour of numerous meetings both professional and personal.

Matters came to a head in March 1989 when a week dominated by evening GC Management meetings concluded with a Saturday Women’s Training Conference at the Community Centre, addressed by Shadow Minister Alma Blenkinsopp and the ubiquitous Duncan Musgrave from the Sectional Team.

As she walked up the pathway to her house, her approach heralded as usual by a yapping Splosh, she reflected that they had pulled it off – just. The Conference was the first real test for the new women leadership team and had been dogged by difficulties from the outset.

Firstly, they had been forced to compromise over the crèche; due to male Party members (whose numbers included Ned Pit and Shaun Mills) discovering that previous engagements prevented them from staffing the rota.

Women’s Officer, Hazel was adamant that no female member should be deprived of even a minute of the programme because of the burden of childcare:

(They like the fun of MAKING them and that’s about the sum of it!)

but the men voted with their feet and they were forced to engage the services of a childcare agency worker at an exorbitant cost.

Secondly, the speaker, Alma Blenkinsopp MP was a less than ideal choice for such a groundbreaking occasion.

At 65, Mrs Blenkinsopp was coming to the end of her tenure in frontline politics; had supported local residents in their campaign to evict the Greenham women on grounds of poor hygiene and general rowdiness, and had opposed the national Party campaign against sexist language:

(I am a Chairwoman – not a CHAIR).

But beggars could not be choosers, and only Alma Blenkinsopp had agreed to waste a Saturday in a Tory stronghold – on the understanding that there would be full press coverage, including television.

The attendance register was similarly underwhelming. Female members of the Booth / Smithers variety, trickled in, and Mrs Blenkinsopp’s irritation at spreading her pearls before a sprinkling of 20

(I thought we’d have to haul them in off the streets!)

was considerably augmented as the scheduled press conference came and went without a single representative from the Third Estate crossing the threshold.

But then the hand of fate intervened by way of a horrific crash involving a black saloon car and two motorbikes 100 yards from the Community Centre. The media then miraculously emerged – as did Alma Blenkinsopp who secured her television coverage; bewailing the dangers of Tory city traffic management and pledging to raise the issue in the House.

So it had been a success - of sorts - but not in the way envisaged.

As she entered the hallway, a familiar, sweet smell assailed her nostrils, and her ears were assaulted by the mingled wailing of Richard, Vanessa and Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands.

Paul and Martin Sweet were listening to the latter; Richard and Vanessa were squabbling over the contents of the Fisher Price house and the source of the smell was unmistakable.

Paul, and Hazel’s ex husband, were indulging in the secret stash at 6pm in full view of her children, who were tired, hungry and fractious. She scooped them up and shooed them into the dining room where she fed them pizza slices and a tray of oven chips.

The fall-out, later that evening, with the children in bed and her lounge finally free of a worse-for wear Martin Sweet, was predictable.

She had accused Paul of corrupting their children by exposing them to illegal drugs:

Vanessa’s seven – not seven months.

He had countered with charges of child neglect:

Why did you want kids if you didn’t want to look after them? Out FOUR times this week and the whole of Saturday!

She had attacked the Nuttalls; he had vilified Hazel:

Poor bloody Mart! Letting his hair down for the first time in years! Granny fed him on corned beef and potato salad – no wonder he needs a joint though you can see he’s not used to it – stoned on the first puff!

Love fifteen. Fifteen all. Fifteen thirty. The tennis match of their marriage.

Still later, when Paul had retired to bed, she finished off the dregs of a bottle of un-chilled Sancerre whilst watching the regional television news; shots of the crash and Alma Blenkinsopp speaking to camera. At the side of the screen, she caught a glimpse of herself in her grey linen skirt suit; clutching her new business briefcase- all buckles and gilt. She looked porky beside the diminutive Blenkinsopp and Hazel, whiplash thin in a trouser suit and brogues.

Hazel – who phoned excitedly – how fantastic was that?!

Not especially, against the backdrop of domestic mayhem; to include tending to Richard who had woken from a nightmare – and had covered his Batman duvet with vomit

A passive victim of secret stash fumes?

She did not tell Hazel about Martin. Hazel had sloughed off the domestic coil and it was fairer not to.


At the end of that year, in Littlebury; the warm glow attendant upon a third glass of amaretto did not shield her from the fact that she had certainly not shaken off hers. 

Wednesday, 21 August 2013

Best Blessings of Existence 50

in which the Gridchester chronicle reaches a denouement.


Analysts of 20th century British politics consider The Church Hall Riot to be a classic example of how a single unexpected event can change the course of history.

The candidate question and answer session in an obscure Gridchester church hall confirmed the Tories in power for another decade and set Borthwick Prosser upon an upward trajectory that would take him to a Cabinet post as Secretary of State for Transport.

The Party Leader (and Brian Pelleroe) retired.

The hall erupted as soon as Brian gave a clumsy assent to Paul’s interpretation of the Cummings question. Furious residents of the Nye Estate surged forward exocet-style, and Prosser seized the microphone from an incredulous Vicar Bottomley.

And THIS, friends (jabbing at Brian with his finger) is the alternative to the stability and harmony of Conservative government!

THIS MAN has today said in public what his Party bosses say in private!

They say that decent people on modest incomes live in such squalor that they have introduced into Gridchester a PLAGUE of the very VERMIN that he is paid to exterminate in his day job!!

THIS MAN AND HIS PARTY HAVE TODAY STIGMATISED A WHOLE SECTION OF SOCIETY !!!

She did not think that the Nye contingent seemed stigmatised; nor did they appear especially decent.

They looked triumphant and were exhibiting the type of violent behaviour that would, in other circumstances (kicking chairs; overthrowing the candidates’ table) have ensured a night in the cells.

In addition, she was sure that some, if not most of them, were acting under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

Angry voices charged Brian with deliberately targeting them during the course of the campaign; visiting repeatedly for the sole purpose of reporting them to the Council on trumped up public health charges and entering their names in secret files.

Prosser appeared to be conducting them in a parody of Last Night at the Proms and it was only when Vicar Bottomley fell to the floor and disappeared beneath a jumble of disorderly limbs, that somebody called the police.

It was a relief to go to work the next day; although she had barely slept after a furious row with Paul that had woken up the children and distressed the dog.
She accused him of sabotaging Brian’s campaign for the purpose of destroying her credibility with the Party and depriving her of the only friends she had managed to make in this God-forsaken hell-hole.

Of course it did not stop there.

By the time Vanessa came downstairs, crying

I can’t sleep because you’re KILLING MY DADDY!

she had treated her husband to the entire canon of grief screamed at full volume; her ruined career; his horrible father; the vile patronage of Gillian; her breadline existence while St Nicola and her brats lived in luxury; the pathetic fawning of the Nuttalls and his infidelity with that Hunt bitch.

When Paul countered, nastily with

How does it feel to be dumped for a pregnant teenager?

she threw the alarm clock.

He threw his boots.

When Paul scooped Vanessa up and left the room with the piece de resistance

St Nicola? This type of behaviour is tantamount to child abuse.

she did not reply but sat alone in the darkness.

Lynne was in Toronto, living it up. She was in Binley, living in hell. Tomorrow, she would crawl, grovel – do whatever it took to patch things up and carry on.

Tomorrow

Tonight, she was simply too tired…

Philip Twill’s exclusive in The Gridchester Post did not remain exclusive to either his paper or Gridchester.

Within the space of a day, the streets, shops and pubs were crawling with journalists from national outlets; attempting to exploit a story that had transformed the course of a pedestrian General Election campaign.

The Party Leader made a statement disowning Brian as a naïve and inexperienced candidate whose aberrant views were in no way representative of either the thinking or the programme of the Party.

He attempted to dismiss the unfortunate comment as being of little relevance, but his assertion that

Gridchester North is not a seat we would expect to win in a landslide

opened up a further seam of misery.

Robbie Nantwich interviewed a number of MPs defending small majorities, including Derek Kingsmill from Lowerbridge.

The events of the past few days had clearly affected Derek who looked more than usually puffy and anxious.

No, he said,

Of course the Leader had not said that the feelings and opinions of the people in Gridchester were not important. Of course they were just as crucial and VALID as those of the residents of Lowerbridge …

Similarly, the Leader had not meant that any old idiot with dangerous views was welcome to stand in seats like Gridchester. No, not at all.

And as for what the entire debacle revealed about the Party’s methods of selecting candidates – well, it wasn’t his place to say, really, was it? They generally did very well and picked first-rate candidates, absolutely everywhere...

The Crier’s front page the next day lead with:

MP CLAIMS PARTY COULD NOT ORGANISE A P*** UP IN A BREWERY: KINGSMILL SLAMS CORRUPT CANDIDATE SELECTIONS

She and the girls were sitting in the living room of Gail Pitt’s small terraced house, eating Twiglets and drinking a second bottle of Sancerre.

During the campaign, they had abandoned their weekly Malmsey Head evenings; firstly because of election work and now to avoid the undercover journalists who had infiltrated every single hostelry in Gridchester.

The second bottle had been purchased in an attempt to comfort a distraught Sylvia, who was alternately sniffing and sobbing after a bruising encounter with Lisbet Pelleroe.

Since the Church Hall Riot, three days ago, Brian had been holed up in his home bunker; cowering behind curtains whilst the flower of journalism staked out his garden. Lisbet had not felt impelled to placate them with refreshments and the advice from the Party’s National Office had been to remain under cover.

However, Sylvia (who had not seen Brian since he had been unceremoniously escorted from the meeting by two uniformed constables), had telephoned his home incessantly and on receiving no reply, had turned up on the doorstep, braving notebooks and cameras, armed with a steak and kidney casserole.

Lisbet Pelleroe’s elderly mother, who had not been privy to the Party’s advice to keep exits and entrances closed, opened the front door and was virtually crushed by a stampede of journalists and photographers who surged into the hall, knocking the casserole to the floor.

The sight of photographers taking pictures of steak, kidney and gravy seeping into her new Axminster carpet and treading it into the pile was too much for Lisbet who turned on Sylvia and screamed:

Get out and leave my bloody husband alone!

This was bad enough, but what was worse was the ensuing array of headlines and photographs in the press which were all variants of:

DISGRACED CANDIDATE IN LOVE TRIANGLE ROW

Sylvia was inconsolable. Quite apart from her distress at the behaviour of Lisbet and humiliation at the hands of the press, there was the issue of Shaun.

I told him that nothing had gone on, but he said that was worse than if it had!

she wailed.

He said that everyone at work was laughing at him because his wife fancied the Rodent Officer who didn’t fancy her back – and all the mums on the school run are talking about me. I want to die; we’ll have to sell the house – and how will I cope as a single parent?

I hate Brian Pelleroe! I wish he was dead!

She suspected that Sylvia was not the only person or group of people (including the Party Leader) to be cherishing murderous thoughts about Brian Pelleroe, but as she refilled Sylvia’s glass, she reflected that the love triangle issue had come in handy.

The Pelleroe affair had developed a life of its own and the fact that her husband had lit the touch paper at the meeting had gone largely unnoticed.

Things at home settled down; after a fashion.

She and Paul circled each other for a day or so, like wary jungle beasts, watched fretfully by Vanessa – and then resumed their normal behaviour.

She had no illusions about her marriage or her husband; she had weighed them in the balance and found both wanting. But they had children, a house and a dog, so she put up, shut up, cooked, cleaned and had sex as usual.

Women of her generation and Sylvia’s did not want to be alone, so they worked at their marriages until such time as their marriages did not work and they were dumped anyway.

That time was not yet.

The day before the Election saw the Pelleroe affair at last departing the front pages of the papers and acquiring a quieter berth towards the middle sections.

Opinion polls that had seen the Party assuming third place behind the Liberals, perked up, after an uproar following the death of a child who had received the wrong dosage of medication during a tonsils and adenoids operation in Newcastle.

Brian Pelleroe had ventured out of his house into an empty garden and the Gridchester comrades decided to meet in the tap room at The Duke (after an Eve of Poll leaflet drop) to see the closing edition of Election Round Up; the BBC’s authoritative pundit programme.

She sat with Hazel and Gail, keeping her distance from the Beeches and Vince O’Reilly, who had made some nasty comments about Paul at the height of the Pelleroe affair.

A subdued Sylvia had wedged herself between Shaun and Martin Sweet, keeping as much space between herself and the Pelleroes as it was possible to achieve without actually sitting in another bar.

Brian just looked ill.

And now, said presenter, Gilbert Daventry, who enjoyed the type of seniority and prestige that Robbie Nantwich was yet to achieve:

in a final twist to one of the most EXTRAORDINARY election campaigns in living memory, we have an exclusive interview with the woman who should have been a candidate in Gridchester North; the woman who was spurned by a vengeful Party in favour of a man who says that poor people are responsible for infestations of rats; the man who has stigmatised a huge swathe of decent people living and working in Britain today.

I give you the lady herself : Clare Butcher!

The room was silent and all eyes were mesmerised by the Medusa-like figure of their former Treasurer relating in the ringing tones that had once been used to harangue the candidate of a County Council by-election for financial profligacy, how she had sacrificed years of her life working for the Party to the detriment of her marriage, only to be deprived of the right to stand for selection because of the crimes of her husband.

She, Clare, had taught at Sunday school and was a member of Vicar Bottomley’s flock who had personally organised the successful Party Band Aid Knitting Programme.

Her application was founded on excellent work, strong principles and absolute financial probity, but she had been rejected without the courtesy of an explanation.

It was for that reason that tonight she felt it the mission of a lifetime in politics to urge the people of Gridchester and elsewhere to vote Conservative.

There was more; an interview with an ebullient Borthwick Prosser who appeared beneath a poster emblazoned with the Tory slogan: CONSERVATIVE: COMPETENCE WITH COMPASSION; and a shot of the Party Leader running into an alleyway to escape a shower of eggs and tomatoes - but she was not paying attention.

She was thinking about Clare Butcher.

The former Treasurer, she of the flapping trousers and shapeless pepper'n’salt hair style had now broadcast to the nation sporting a youthful brunette pixie cut atop a fitted sapphire-blue -acket with shoulder pads.

Clare looked like Alexis Carrington in Dynasty! she said.

There was a pause and then Lester Beech rose, walked the length of the room and pushed his weak chin up close. She could see his acne scars.

Well, I’ve heard it all now! he yelled, looking at his support group of our Chantelle and our Darren:

Who does she think she IS?!

First she wants to scupper this Party by selecting a criminal and then her bloody husband finishes the job by pole-axing the General Election!

Wake up and smell the coffee love - and while you’re at it why don’t you walk out of that door?

We don’t want YOUR SORT round here!

Gail laid a restraining hand on her shoulder, whispering

Ignore him, he’s drunk

but a line had been crossed.

How dare this vile, ignorant, vulgar man who stank of fags and beer speak to her like this? The Nye estate was too good for him!

I don’t think, she said, collecting her bag and moving towards the door

that we want YOUR SORT anywhere, unless it’s in a prison cell for handling stolen goods!
And if Brian wants some rats to exterminate I suggest that he starts with YOU!

Beech lunged but she was out of the room; out of the pub, into the street and running.
It was over, and so was Election ‘87. She would not go to the Count.

A fortnight later, she sat with Hazel in the Coffee Cabin, where they were taking a break from an exhausting morning at the summer sales.

She was pleased with her grey velvet jeans; she had been stalking them for the past two months in Benetton; monitoring as they inched down in price, until at half the original mark up, she had swooped. They were slightly too tight, but this (taking a bite) would be the last of the Penguin biscuits!

I’m starting the High Fibre diet tomorrow, she announced.

Hazel smiled weakly, looking askance at her purchases, within their Evans the Outsize bag. She had tried everything from Weightwatchers to yoga and was convinced that her resolutely size 18 figure (tucking into a custard slice) was due to her glands.

They mulled over the fall out from the Election.

The result was much the same as in 1983.

The Party Leader had gone before he was pushed; Derek Kingsmill’s majority was now a slender 278; Norris Farmer had taken early retirement; Brian had lost his deposit and resigned his membership.

Although at least we haven’t got to console Sylvia; she really hates him now, observed Hazel.

The real winner was, of course, Clare Butcher, who had been inundated with requests to sell her story and had used the proceeds of a string of interviews to move house. She was already being touted as a strong contender for a Tory seat next time.

Lester Beech had been reported to the Sectional Team over his car-boot wares and his membership was suspended, pending enquiries. She was relieved that his drunken attack had been universally reviled, including his comments about Paul.

Your husband’s just shy, anyone can see that, Hazel had soothed.

Anyone could have said that – after all, he was just trying to EXPLAIN to Brian wasn’t he? And everybody hates the Beeches; Lester is a thug and she’s no better than she should be. Gail says she saw her coming out of the Clap Clinic at the hospital! Might even be on the game!

Hazel’s belief in Paul’s innate niceness was still the prevailing opinion- although perhaps it took someone not nice like Lester Beech to guess at the truth.

In any case, things had returned to an even keel and Paul had taken on some private pupils from the Convent

so that we can have a holiday, Sweetie.

They picked up their packages, left the café and she thought about Clare who was minus a husband, but plus a new look, new house and maybe a new career.

If Clare Butcher could do it ….

She dismissed the idea as preposterous but reflected as they drove off in the green Renault that the ancestor of every action is a thought.

She had always rated Emerson…

Tuesday, 13 August 2013

Best Blessings of Existence 49

in which Emma B speaks of rats, and of what was always going to happen


Brian Pelleroe was selected to fight the Party’s corner in Gridchester North at the 1987 General Election. Sixty seven people turned up to a dingy Little Theatre auditorium on a wet Saturday afternoon in February to question the candidates and cast their votes.

The venue had seen better days but was never short of custom. When an indifferent travelling repertory company was not using it as the base for a summer comedy (The Importance of Being Earnest or Absurd Person Singular) it was an automatic choice for school Speech Days.

At General Elections, it became a whistle-stop in Week Three of the Tory Prime Minister’s nationwide tour when its pillars, seats and balconies were festooned with Union Jack paraphernalia.

Now it presented au naturel; save for a Party banner, hastily rigged up and draped over a podium on the stage.

The programme of events offered little to startle and amaze.
Austin Cox, perhaps surmising that he was unlikely to get a second chance to redeem his unfortunate 1983 result, had withdrawn from the contest and Party members voted on a ratio of roughly two to one, for their Chairman.

The two candidates were underwhelming; their relative strengths and weaknesses finely balanced.

Brian was blessed with an intimate knowledge of Gridchester (perhaps too intimate for the squeamish) but his knowledge of wider policy was limited.
Leonora knew nothing about Gridchester and everything about the radical feminist politics of London boroughs.
She had some support.

Chantelle and Lester Chase imagined that she might encourage her society connections to befriend their wastrel son Darren – but they were fighting a lost cause.

It was always going to be Brian, observed number one fan, Sylvia Mills when her hero triumphed.

And it was.

She had attended the Selection Conference because of her role as Applications Secretary, but spoiled her ballot paper and went straight home, spurning Sylvia’s offer of a celebratory drink.
.
The house was empty. Paul had taken children and dog to the park and she fussed around in the kitchen, mincing lamb in the Kenwood and dicing carrots for a shepherd’s pie. She had nobody to talk to about the performance in the Little Theatre and her husband’s jaunty comment on his return:

So who won – the Duchess or the Rat Catcher?

was not intended to start a conversation.

Rat Catcher, she replied, dishing up the dinner.

She did not add that she had voted for Clare Butcher.

Over the next few months, her enthusiasm for Party activity waned, and
encounters with the girls became tense.

Evenings at The Malmsey Head or watching a video chez Sweet were not the acme of social entertainment, but they were fun and she looked forward to them. Now, the atmosphere was soured because Hazel, Gail and Sylvia were on one side of the Butcher divide and she was on the other.

I just don’t get it! Hazel had said, voicing the collective view.

You KNOW how awful the Butchers are – Ron’s a criminal; we’ve had week after week of bad publicity and it’s not as if you owe Clare any favours!
If Ron hadn’t made off with the Deposit Account, she’d have hung you out to dry over Laceybrook!

There was more of the same from Sylvia, overlain with added barbs about disloyalty to Brian. Gail as usual, was quiet, but her nods and sniffs were eloquent.

She had tried.

It was not that she liked Clare – in fact she remained extremely critical about the way that the Butchers had trampled over what passed for democracy to preserve a vice-like grip on the Party.

But Clare, unlike Ron, had been convicted of nothing and to keep her off a shortlist because of the crimes and misdemeanours of her errant husband was unfair and despicable.

Clare Butcher had suffered discrimination in her professional ambition because she had the misfortune to have married the wrong man and if this was to set a precedent for ALL women who had picked a less than perfect husband….

She was unwilling to pursue that train of thought to its logical conclusion, but the gulf was insurmountable. It was best to leave it.
Life minus the intrigues and distractions of the Grichester Party continued as normal – at least for the rest of her family.

Vanessa was now a firmly established member of the Reception Class at school; the proud owner of a My Little Pony lunch box and best friend to a burgeoning number of small girls. Richard’s name was on a waiting list for playgroup, and terry training pants rather than disposable nappies were now the predominant fixture in his wardrobe.

Paul had a full social diary. If he was not carousing in The Duke with Fatty’s gang he was attending Schoolmasters’ Convention representing Independent Day Schools. John Nuttall was openly acknowledged as his closest colleague and she had to endure many evenings en famille; either slaving in her own kitchen, or eating burnt offerings from Kathryn’s.
In May, The Family Court’s decision to award Nicola an increase in maintenance, sounded the death knell to holiday plans, but Lynne’s postcard was the clincher.

Lynne had been seconded on a year’s contract to Toronto as a senior advisor on city-wide climate change measures. A spacious bay and gable house in Little Italy was part of the package and the nightlife was incredible.

The General Election was set for June.

She was back on board.

Initial indicators were promising. Lester Beech had offered to manage campaign finances (as a small businessman) but she was delighted that his itchy palm was firmly rejected in preference to Gail Pitt’s safe pair of hands.

After all, she said, stacking election leaflets into piles of fifty

the only difference between him and Ron Butcher is that Butcher got caught.

She was sitting with the girls at Sylvia’s kitchen table, surrounded by leaflets, A4 boxes and the Tornadoes, Sylvia’s less than placid offspring. Christine was babysitting which was fortunate because when she had taken Sylvia at her word:

Bring the kids – they can play with mine

it ended in tears and a dash to Accident and Emergency after Ida had poked Richard’s eye with a pencil.

Paul was vicious; accusing her of child neglect if not outright abuse and it was easier not to retort that all and any accidents would have been avoided if just for once, he had shared the burden of childcare.

The campaign in Gridchester was a haphazard affair, unlike the machine politics powering Derek Kingsmill’s battle in Lowerbridge. Shadow Cabinet Ministers visiting factories, nurseries and council estates with Derek in their wake were constantly popping up in The Gridchester Post and she had stopped watching the regional television news because the constant presence of Derek in her lounge was distasteful.

Her enjoyment of national programmes was soured for the same reason.

If it was not Derek, musing on the responsibility of defending a little red island in a sea of blue it was Robbie Nantwich treating the great and good to his ironic delivery and lip curls and sometimes Robbie Nantwich interviewing Derek.

For once she was happy to acquiesce when Paul assaulted her ears with the latest Bartok album.

Anything was preferable to Derek.

As expected, Norris Farmer and his Sectional Team colleagues left Gridchester well alone. Honour had been satisfied by the selection of a candidate and they neither knew nor cared about the fate of that candidate.

The various stages of the campaign proceeded in their accustomed fashion.
Leaflet delivery was better than expected, but, as usual, there was a shortage of canvassers. Party members were unwilling to risk life and limb by knocking on the doors of strangers in such a hopeless cause.

And I do think, said Sylvia waspishly, opening a litre bottle of supermarket chardonnay,

that Lisbet should set an example. People WANT to know that the candidate is a nice rounded person with a family, just like theirs. She’s never there. Poor Brian has to go round all on his own.

Gail coughed, the unspoken sign between the rest of them that Sylvia was yet again indulging in her favourite pursuit; obsessing about Brian and bad-mouthing his wife.

It was as unfair as blaming Clare Butcher for the crimes of the Peacock Heating Thief – and where were these ideal families to be found except in a Laura Ingalls Wilder novel?

She became part of Brian’s select (small) canvassing team and found the experience intensely depressing.

Hazel and Martin had been shocked when (as The Cagoules) they had turned up on her doorstep in 1983, because she had arraigned them, when all she was supposed to do was to speak one of two words when asked which way she would vote.

The same weakness bedevilled her as a canvasser.

She wanted to talk to people and it felt unspeakably rude to throw metaphorical cold water in the friendly faces of the few who were pleased to see them.

We don’t care what they think; we need to know how they’ll vote, instructed Martin, in long-suffering tones – but she was a lost cause and in the absence of others, would have to do.

From time to time, they met the Tory team (or squadron) headed by their captain, candidate Borthwick Prosser.

Prosser was what her father would have termed an oik; all slicked back hair and Aramis aftershave; loud striped shirts, patterned braces and gold plated cufflinks.
He and his glossy posse swept, in Hermes, down the streets like a plague of marauding locusts, armed to the hilt with clipboards, badges and leaflets taunting I SPY REDS UNDER THE BEDS whenever they happened to collide with Brian’s team.

Hazel was right; he was detestable – but she could also see that he was effective in a way that Brian was not.

Starting with matters sartorial…

Unlike retiring MP, Hedley Mount, Prosser was not a client of Saville Row and in comparison with the elegant MP (whose wardrobe channelled that of HRH the Prince of Wales); his style might be deemed vulgar.

But Brian had no style at all.

Come rain or shine, he sported his lucky canvassing coat; an unfortunate cross between a donkey jacket and quilted Gannex in a depressing sludge colour.
Similarly, his speciality fisherman’s jerseys, trousers best known as slacks with sag at the seat and knee and footwear akin to hiking boots were not designed to inspire confidence.

Worst of all, in place of Aramis was the ever present and overpowering odour arising from the chemicals he worked with as a Rodent Officer.

Requiring a 46-year-old man to ditch the habits of a lifetime and invest in a total makeover was obviously a step too far – but she did think he could do something about the smell.

It isn’t as if it’s that antiseptic carbolic smell, she whispered to the girls when Sylvia was out of the room

It’s got a hint of raw sewage and every time I’m on a doorstep with Brian, I’m wondering if people have noticed --- it’s downright anti social turning up and STINKING at the voters like that….

Hazel and Gail agreed; but as the prospect of broaching matters of personal hygiene with the candidate was out of the question, suggested addressing the matter by wearing extra strong perfume.

It was a solution – of sorts.

Of equal concern was Brian’s canvassing strategy.

He had won the selection on the grounds of

Knowing every inch of Gridchester like the back of my hand

but he knew some areas better than others; including a large run-down estate on the edge of the city. The Nye Estate, built cheaply and hastily at the beginning of the 60s, was home to petty criminals, one-parent families, the jobless and work-shy – and was fertile ground for social workers police officers and, as Brian had discovered in a professional capacity, rats.

The run-down houses and junk-filled gardens bestrewn with refuse were unlikely to contain Borthwick voters; Brian was right about that.

But she felt that he was wrong to assume that such an estate might be packed to the gills with Pelleroe fans – after all, why would people who had been visited by Brian as Chief Rodent Officer to eliminate the vermin that their lifestyle had encouraged wish to elect him as their MP?

The majority of people on the Nye Estate were unlikely to vote at all, and it would be more worthwhile to visit the professional households in the Fleetwood Triangle who were worried about the cost of living and the decline of the NHS.

Brian, however, backed by Sylvia and the Vince O’Reilly trade union gang, knew better and the candidate spent his entire campaign revisiting the sites of previous infestations and setting up work for the future, although not of a parliamentary kind..

The last week of the campaign kicked off with a live candidate question and answer session in St Francis and All Saints church hall.

Paul, who had watched her efforts from the sidelines, decided to accompany her and Christine was engaged to babysit.

His presence was something of a relief.

There had been knowing looks and whispers in some quarters about the fact that her husband did not join her at Party events and she fancied that she had caught the name Dickon Cleave on the lips of enemies such as the Beeches after she had dared to stand up for Clare Butcher.

It was satisfying to sit in the front row next to Lisbet Pelleroe and her own well- dressed husband. Paul had not changed out of his work suit and she was wearing a new red dress from Benetton.

They were a smart couple.

The hall was packed; largely by supporters of the candidates. Members of the public had submitted questions in advance and debate then widened, with impromptu supplementary queries from the floor, fielded by Vicar Bottomley.

Radio Gridchester was recording the session with links to national broadcasts and Philip Twill from The Gridchester Post was the duty reporter. It was all rather exciting.

Brian versus Prosser was not such a one-sided contest as she had expected. Any Pelleroe weaknesses on national issues paled into insignificance beside the gross ignorance of Hayley Jones the Liberal candidate who began every answer with

As a wife and mother…

Also, Borthwick Prosser, to the unbiased eye, could be described as overly cocky.
Brian stood no chance of winning, but he might pick up a few more votes than Austin Cox in ’83 – which would be a good return for all the thankless work.

She looked at her watch. Time for one or at the most two, more questions.

Could I ask, offered a pompous voice coming from behind her

the candidates to say a little about nature and nurture?
From an environmental point of view?

Is it only possible to promote recycling, composting and bottle banks, for example in affluent areas? How can we ensure that the green message is universal and universally observed?

She looked over her shoulder at the speaker; the unmistakeable and seasoned Ernest Cummings, Tory Agent for the region, who had been present at the count for the Laceybrook by-election.

It was a trick question – and Prosser was well-prepared, judging by the ease in which he launched into a spiel about all things environmental and nothing of specific relevance.

Brian cleared his throat and paused.

I’m not quite sure, he faltered, what is the point of Mr Cummings’ question?

It’s simple! shouted Paul merrily.

He means, are poor people more likely to have their homes infested with rats?!

Well, yes, if you…. began Brian, but his words were drowned by the riot and in the interests of safety, he was removed by the police.

Sunday, 11 August 2013

Best Blessings of Existence 48

In which the song remains the same.



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.

Wednesday, 7 August 2013

Best Blessings of Existence 47


She was rather looking forward to the selection of a parliamentary candidate.

Admittedly, from the Party’s perspective, Gridchester North was an atrocious seat and every penny wasted on it would be better spent in defending Derek Kingsmill’s wafer-thin majority in neighbouring Lowerbridge

But received wisdom, handed down the generations like an albatross, was that people should have an opportunity to vote for the Party no matter where they were foolish enough to reside.

Otherwise the Party would be vulnerable to the charge of punishing people on grounds of geographical preference.

A candidate must and would be selected.

Paul was scathing:

For God’s sake, darling, why not pin a rosette on Splosh and have done with it?!

She could see the logic but was not about to admit it. They were sipping rather vinegary white wine chez Nuttall, the venue for the cast party after the week’s run of the Fairway 6th form play.

The Winter’s Tale was an ambitious choice for Fairway Grammar and broke with the tradition of a comedy such as Dighton’s The Happiest Days of Your Life, affording amateur thespians the opportunity to channel Margaret Rutherford or Alistair Sim, - or a musical, in which case Oh What a Lovely War was favourite.

At Oaks’ Haven, she had achieved a modest success with Miller’s The Crucible, but the complexity of a Shakespearian tragedy was an enormous challenge for 17 year old boys; and girls on loan from Fairway Convent.

She did not think that they had risen to it.

The performance had been execrable in every respect; from the garish backdrops courtesy of the Upper 6th Art set, to the mangled verse.

Kathryn Nuttall had assumed the role of Wardrobe Mistress and the skimpy green tunics she had designed for the Bohemia scenes left little to the imagination, especially when the actors bounded around the stage in an impromptu dance that Paul had choreographed for the Sheep Shearers’ Feast.

Diaghilev he was not, and lumpen limbs thrusting back and forth to the insistent rhythm bore no comparison with Nijinsky.

Worst of all, Paul himself had taken the helm, deputising at the last moment for the original Florizel, who had broken his ankle in rehearsal.

She sat in the front row next to John Nuttall, squirming with embarrassment, as her husband, in full three piece suit with fob watch, read from the script whilst cavorting with a nubile, scantily clad Perdita.

When Paul delivered the famous lines:

What you do
Still betters what is done.
When you speak, sweet,
I’d have you do it ever.

There were whistles and shouts of Bravo!

Escape was impossible - and it was also impossible to ignore the fact that Paul had thrown himself into the role with gusto.

She fancied, like Leontes in the Sicilia scenes, that there was rather too much paddling of palms going on and was thankful that the performance marked the end rather than the beginning of a process.

At the party in the Nuttalls’ handkerchief garden, there was much jollity and back-slapping with Paul as the hero of the hour, lauded by his Headmaster; Stuart Guinness for putting Fairway on the map.

A reporter from The Gridchester Post; the local paper covering both Gridchester and Fairway, was scurrying amidst cast members, and she noted to her chagrin that it was Philip Twill; the print assassin of Ron Butcher.

She also noted the fact that Perdita (the only cast member who had not changed out of her tunic into something a little more respectable) was chasing Paul round the garden like a Jack Russell.

He’s so patient with her, said Kathryn Nuttall in a tone of intense and barely concealed irritation.

But really, you’d think the nuns would teach her how to behave.
She’s obviously shortened her tunic and when she performed the arabesque, you could see everything she’s got! Although perhaps that was the idea.

The atmosphere was fractious and it was a relief to get home to Binley.

Over the forthcoming days and weeks, the Party embarked upon the candidate selection process for Gridchester North, starting with a visit from the Sectional Team Head, Norris Farmer.

At a special meeting in The Duke, peering frostily over half-mooned spectacles, the fifty-plus, dusty official outlined the process before, in effect, tearing up the Rule Book ( because you’re unlikely to get more than a handful of people interested and it would be better to shortlist them all and have done with it).

There were murmurings of discontent; openly voiced by Fred Hoy who had resumed attendance at meetings:

Well, Norris, I think that’s a bit pessimistic, isn’t it?
We’re hoping for quite a few applications. If everyone had taken that line in 1945 and 1966 we wouldn’t have had the landslides; or our great reforming Governments for working people.

Norris gave a world- weary sigh. During 30 years as a paid Party official, he had heard it all before.

Parties in unwinnable seats accepted that they were unwinnable for 99% of the time and were so lazy and irresponsible that they rarely be-stirred themselves to collect the membership money, to say nothing of organising a fundraising programme.

But as soon as a General Election was in the offing, they suddenly became affronted at being reminded of a status they had formerly accepted; nurtured delusions of victory and in practice, concentrated all their efforts on pestering Tory supporters in the black hole, rather than canvassing in marginal seats like Lowerbridge.

It was why the Party had never enjoyed full consecutive terms of Government and why the Tories were the most successful political party in Europe.

Tonight, he had neither the time nor the inclination to engage.

Well – pigs might fly, he said cheerily and left.

She sat with the girls in The Malmsey Head discussing the forthcoming candidate hustings. As it turned out, Norris, rather than Fred had been prescient; three people had applied for the thankless task of flying the Party flag in Gridchester North, including Party Chairman, Brian Pelleroe.

It’s GOT to be Brian! enthused Sylvia

Otherwise there’s absolutely NO point in fighting the Election! He knows every inch of Gridchester like the back of his hand –what interloper could match that?

She opened a new packet of menthol cigarettes and offered them round.

Of course, there was no point in fighting the Election in Gridchester North. Even if the Party Leader decided to abandon his own enormous majority and don the candidate mantle, the result would be the same.

However, Sylvia had a point. As Chief Rodent Officer for Gridchester District Council, Brian did know every inch of the constituency like the back of his hand and had treated most of it for infestation.
He was especially strong on Public Health and could campaign for an upgrade to the sewerage system, for example.

In the interests of friendship she conceded these points, but was not really concentrating.

She had taken a series of peculiar telephone calls at home: the line always cut out when she picked up the receiver. The warmer weather had ushered in a spate of petty burglaries; including an attack on the video shop near her home.

The assailants, who had terrorised Mr Patel in their black balaclavas, forcing him to drop to his knees and beg for mercy like a dog, did not steal anything and turned out to be truants from the language remedial class at GC.

But it was unnerving.

She did not teach the youths, who were quickly apprehended and had already made their first appearance at Gridchester Magistrates’ Court - but the proximity to her own home and her dog and small children was extremely unpleasant.

Do you think, she asked, inhaling for a change, that we’re being targeted?

Sort of Patels yesterday – us today? Do you think they’re putting down a marker – like a cat spraying?

She rarely spoke about GC or her work there to the girls - there would have been no point of reference - but today recounted an incident from last week when she had reported a boy to the Principal for tormenting a girl in the corridor.

He called her a lezzer – I didn’t know either of them and with that kind of lad, any girl who turns him down must be gay – but she was crying so I reported him.
He was suspended. Could he have got his mates up to this - to teach me a lesson? We’re not ex-directory.

Sylvia sniffed. She wanted to talk about Brian’s campaign and now the evening would over before she had the chance to wax lyrical over the merits of the Gridchester Chairman.

I don’t THINK so…

offered Hazel sagely.

It could be any number of things; a shared line, faulty connection --- oh and what about that after-play party that you went to? The one where they were all running around with no clothes on? What about that?

Had Hazel taken leave of her senses?

How could the Nuttalls’ cast party possibly be related to anonymous telephone calls?

No – you’re not getting it! cried Hazel excitedly.

That reporter was there – Philip Twill! You said he was nosing around! The one who wrote all the Butcher muck!

It’s a set up by The Post! YOUR NAME as Applications Secretary was printed in the paper. All applications to you and the cut off date! He’s trying to intimidate you and trying to scupper the selection! I knew it! It’s a Tory trick! They’re hand in glove with Prosser!

Did he say anything to you at the party? Think back! Did he mention the selection?

No. He hadn’t, and now Hazel was obsessing about her pet topic; the perfidy of Ron Butcher in relation to the evils of the Tory press.

But in the absence of another solution…

Paul arrived home later than usual and the chicken chasseur with button mushrooms and sauté potatoes had seen better days.

Her husband seemed to think so too, because he pushed his meal around the plate with little enthusiasm, rather like Richard when faced with carrots and sprouts.

She had been talking about telephone calls for 10 minutes to an unresponsive audience – Paul was barely listening and left the table to put Petrushka on the record player.

Stravinsky at full volume reminded her of The Rites of Spring

Hazel thought that the calls might be linked to the Nuttall’s party…

The comment was aimed at her husband’s back and Paul swung round angrily.

Oh for God’s sake – what does Hazel Sweet know about the party – or about anything to do with me for that matter? What have you been telling her? She’s an interfering old bag and, frankly I expect Martin has to put a bag over her head or he’d never get it up!

She’s a frustrated old cow and I’m amazed that you’d want to waste a second on what she thinks about anything!

His words were slightly slurred; they had not had wine with dinner and he must have stopped off at The Duke before coming home.

Nothing was said about you, why would it be? she countered.

Paul certainly did look the worse for wear and his forehead was shiny with sweat.

How odd that she had only just noticed it.

She meant the reporter – Philip Twill from The Post. He was interviewing the cast and of course, must have known that I’m your wife. Hazel wondered if he was up to mischief over the candidate selection. My name’s been in the paper three times recently as Applications Secretary.

There was a pause. Paul eased into the wheel - backed chair and took off his jacket.

Was she imagining it, or did he seem more relaxed? The storm had passed.
Of course, the play must have exhausted him. Weeks of rehearsals, all after school and now – nothing!
There was bound to be a winding down process. She should be more sensitive.

Paul gave the ironic smile she knew so well and shook his head.

Stalin’s Granny is a complete fantasist! It’s a fault on the line – I contacted BT about it earlier today – didn’t I say? Quite a few people in this group of streets have complained. It’s sorted now
(with an air of certainty).

But I think you should ask me, darling, before you let them put your name and address in the paper --- any loony could pick it up and take advantage.

She cleared the table and mixed a stiff gin and tonic, feeling slightly silly about the phone calls. She has made a fuss about nothing when Paul had done the sensible thing by reporting it.

Now Hazel would be telling all the comrades that The Post had conspired with Borthwick to sabotage the candidate selection process. Was it too late to call and set the record straight?

Petrushka’s theme reminded her of the Perdita, and Kathryn’s comments about her tunic.

She looked at Paul; happily tapping a boot to the rhythm.

The girl who played Perdita she said, stifling a laugh

Kathryn said she didn’t wear knickers! What do you think?

Paul did not reply.