by Leo McNeir
Serena smiled at him. “Thank you.”
They worked out a roster to share surveillance duties, all of them realising that the stakes had changed. On top of all the riots and bombings, it felt as if they were on a war footing. Marnie, who had faced more than her share of violence over the past year or two, looked at the others as they made their plans, wondering if they understood the pressures that would weigh on them in the weeks ahead. A sense of foreboding gripped her by the throat. She felt a desperate need to lighten the atmosphere.
“Why don’t we go for a drink?” she blurted out to her own surprise and the evident astonishment of the others.
“A drink?” Estelle repeated.
“Why not?” Luther flashed a brilliant white smile. “Marnie’s right. We need to chill out.”
*
As town centre pubs went, it was pleasant enough with a mock-Victorian cosiness, renowned for brewing its own beer in a small glazed outbuilding at the rear. At that time of the day it was not too busy. They congregated round a table in a corner, a group of strange bedfellows to any casual observer.
Marnie stared into her sparkling water. “We’re losing the initiative. Brandon’s setting the agenda, and everyone’s dancing to his tune.”
“And he’s popping up everywhere,” Margaret added. “He’s all over the place, north, south, east, west.”
“The human angle, that’s the way to get him.”
They all looked at Ralph.
“What do you mean?” said Serena. “We don’t want to put more people in danger.”
“We don’t have to. We need ordinary people like that old Welsh boy and his leek, human faces that give the lie to Brandon’s message of hate. He depends on them, faceless bureaucrats, anonymous immigrants, foreigners. Once they’re seen as real people, leading normal lives as citizens, workers and neighbours, Brandon’s lost his advantage.”
“Where do we find these normal people?” Margaret asked.
“Anywhere. Immigrants have served Britain for centuries. Think of the institutions they’ve kept going. In hospitals they’re everything from consultants and nurses to porters and cleaners.”
“My nan said her doctors saved her life when she had pneumonia,” Anne joined in.
“Where did they come from?”
“India or maybe Pakistan. I’m not sure which.”
“People came from the old empire,” said Ralph. “And they often took on jobs that the locals did not want to do. If we can show the human faces, Brandon’s lies won’t stick.”
“You’re right, of course.” Luther was squeezed in between Serena and Estelle. “Look at the sports stars playing for Britain. Lots of them are black. Even the most ordinary people will have interesting stories to tell. Won’t they, Serena?”
“Such as?” said Estelle.
“I bet you’ve got interesting stories to tell.” George was the other side of Serena, doing his best to be squeezed up against her.
“But I don’t want to be in the foreground,” she protested. “We want the local TV news to show people like your old Welsh guy, a friendly face.”
“We’ve got the picture,” said Marnie. They were going over the same ground. It was time to lighten up. “Tell us about your family, Luther.”
“Everyone knows about my family.”
“No, I mean the ordinary side, how they came to Britain, how they settled in, where they lived.”
Luther fell silent for a few reflective moments and then chuckled to himself.
“Come on, Luther.” Serena patted his hand encouragingly.
“Well, I was born here and I’ve never lived anywhere else, but I did hear stories when I was a kid about what it was like when the family came over from Barbados. My dad used to tell me them when I was little.”
Serena laughed. “Little? I thought you were six feet tall at birth!”
He grinned. “Only just.”
“Get on with your story,” said Estelle.
“My favourite one was how they bought their houses. People came for a better life and they wanted their own homes, so they formed house clubs. In those days you needed a thousand pounds to put down as a deposit. If you could save fifty pounds a month, in twenty months you had it.”
“You had to work hard to do that,” said George. “That was good money.”
“Sure. Everybody worked hard. But that was okay. They came here for a better life and they were prepared to go for it.”
“So, house clubs,” Marnie reminded him.
“Exactly. You got a group of twenty families together. Each month, they all put fifty pounds in the pot. Then they drew lots. Whoever won the draw got the pot and they had their deposit. At the worst, you had to wait twenty months, but you had to do that anyway.”
“A housing co-operative,” said Ralph.
“What if someone defaulted?” George asked.
“They never did.”
“What, never?”
“No. You see, they had an insurance policy.”
“Good lord,” George exclaimed. “That’s amazing. I never knew the insurance companies were in the market for that kind of business.”
Luther chuckled. “Well no. It’s what you might call … the black market.”
“Sorry, I don’t follow. You mean it involved some kind of fraud?”
“No. Not that kind of black market. Nobody was actually dishonest, but I don’t suppose you could call them whiter than white.” He was enjoying his joke.
“Come on, Luther.” Marnie sounded impatient in a good-natured way. “What was this insurance policy? Spill the beans.”
“It was simple. If anyone thought he’d pull out of the deal, the other nineteen members of the group would go round to where he lived and threaten to cut his legs off.” Luther shrugged. “No problem.”
Marnie grinned. “And that was the story he told you when he tucked you up in bed at night? Though I suppose it’s no worse than Little Red Riding Hood, when you think about it.”
“Did you often have nightmares?” Anne asked.
Serena put an arm round Luther’s shoulders, smiling broadly. “That’s a good story, Luther.” To Estelle she said, “Tell us about your family, how they came here. I bet you have some tales to tell.”
Estelle suddenly became serious. “We try not to think about our background. The Holocaust doesn’t make for good bedtime story-telling.”
She sipped her drink. The air temperature cooled by several degrees.
George cleared his throat. “Look, I haven’t said this before, but I think there’s a real chance that Brandon could win this election.”
“You’re not serious?” Marnie studied his face.
“Like a lot of Tories I have to admit I’m something of a Euro-sceptic, nothing fanatical, but I’d prefer us to run our own show rather than have Britain run from Brussels. I’d never leave the party, but in many ways I sympathised with Brandon’s position when he quit.”
“So is this difficult for you, George?”
“That’s not what I’m saying, and I’ll still do everything I can to help the summer scheme. I’m against fascism and prejudice, that’s definite. But there is a problem with Brandon and the Tories, and it’s why he’s chosen to contest this particular seat.”
“He thinks he can bomb his way to success,” Serena interjected.
“He doesn’t need to. His main opponents here are the Tories, his main targets are middle-of-the-road, middle-income voters. They’ll decide the result here.”
“Why do you think Brandon can grab their votes?” Marnie asked. “Are you saying they’re going to swallow his line, that they’re racists at heart?”
“No. To win, the Tories only have to get out their vote. The trouble is, the party activists are unlikely to give their candidate the whole-hearted support he needs. And why? Because Toby Creswell-Brown – apart from being wishy-washy and as bland as cream paint – once described Brandon as a national hero.”
“You’re kidding!”
>
George shook his head. “That’s why Brandon declared his candidature so late. He wanted to be sure he was up against a man who in normal circumstances would’ve been a natural ally. The party faithful aren’t going to oppose someone they feel could well have been a successor to John Major as Prime Minister.”
There was a sombre atmosphere surrounding the conspirators when they emerged from the pub. Pausing on the pavement before heading towards their cars, they did their best to buck themselves up and raise their spirits. It was then that they noticed the changes. The district had been transformed, as if a shower or a flash-flood had come while they were inside. The street had been colour-washed in red, white and blue. Every lamp-post had been decorated. Every tree was covered in posters. Some were in the form of union flags; others carried slogans; yet more had photographs. Put Britain First! Garth Brandon was everywhere.
*
“It’s one thing deciding to use ordinary people to get the message across, but how do we make it happen?”
Marnie was tailing George’s Range Rover past the medieval Queen Eleanor Cross up the hill out of town towards the main road home.
“When we get back I’ll ring the news desk at the local radio and TV centres.” Ralph turned to look round his headrest. “Anne, can you check the video recordings you made and give me the names of the reporters who covered the incidents.”
“Sure. I’ve still got them on tape.”
“What are you going to ask them?” Marnie sounded sceptical.
“I’m going to explain that they won’t get any more interviews or statements from the community groups because of the threat of intimidation.”
“Will that matter to them?”
“When I tell them about the death threat, I think it might get their attention.”
Marnie flashed a glance sideways. “You think that’s wise? You wouldn’t mention Serena by name?”
“No, but I’ll say I’m prepared to be quoted on that if necessary.”
“You think that’s a good idea?”
“They’d definitely believe Professor Lombard.” It was Ronny from the back seat.
Anne looked at him with an expression he could not read. Marnie half turned to speak over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that, Ronny. I was thinking it might not be wise for Ralph to stick his head above the parapet with things as they are just now.”
“And I was thinking,” Ralph began, “what choice do we have? If anyone has a better idea, let’s hear it.”
The car was filled with silence. Ronny was wishing he could come up with a plan that everyone would think brilliant. Anne was making a mental list of all the things she and Marnie would need for Friday night. Marnie was going over what Ralph had said. What choice do we have? How often had she been faced with that question? she asked herself.
*
Serena’s troubled expression quickly turned to a beaming smile when she opened the front door and a little boy ran along the hallway to meet her, arms outstretched. She reached down to pick him up, and he threw his arms round her neck, squealing with delight.
“Joey, Joey, Joey!” she exclaimed, burying her face in the side of his head, twisting to left and right, back and forth.
The little boy shrieked and stretched his arms to the ceiling. The two of them laughed uproariously until Serena turned her son upside down and lowered him till he was performing a handstand. In the midst of this excitement a face looked out from the living room door.
“Hi mum!” said Serena. “I see your master plan of getting Joey tired so that he’d be nice and calm hasn’t quite worked out.” She smiled and looked down at the infant, who was now trying to walk on his hands.
“No, but it’s certainly worked on me.” Serena’s mother laughed wearily.
“Where’s Charlie?”
“She’s in here, colouring a picture in her book.”
Beside Serena on the hall table the phone began ringing. Serena’s mother dashed forward and took hold of Joey’s ankles.
“That’s probably Mr Murfitt from the education office. He’s rung three times already.”
While her mother righted Joey and carried him back to the living room, Serena took a deep breath and reached for the phone.
“Serena McDowell.”
“Ah, Serena. At last. I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”
“You’ve got my mobile number, Lee. I always carry it with me.”
“We’ve got a problem.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Or at least I think we have. I hope you’re going to tell me there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Try me.”
“You don’t know what I’m getting at?”
“I will, when you tell me what it is,” Serena replied evenly.
He paused again. Serena joined in. Two could play at that game.
Murfitt said, “The school holiday activities programme.”
“The summer scheme, yes.”
“We see in the press that it’s suddenly mushroomed into a much bigger programme than the one we planned.”
“The committee’s given more detail than we announced before and –”
“In the press, Serena. I’ve checked my in-tray and I don’t see anything from you raising this with me … as your line manager.”
“I’ve been delegated to manage this project and take decisions in conjunction with the organising committee –”
“Within the approved budget.”
“Right.”
“And the committee chairperson tells me she has no knowledge of the financial implications of your new plans.”
“She said that?”
“What are the financial implications, Serena? Exactly.”
“I don’t have the figures in front of me, Lee. I’m standing in the hall at home. I’ve only just come in from a meeting.”
“Of course. It’s unreasonable of me to expect that. So shall we discuss it at county hall? Perhaps you’d be good enough to see me tomorrow morning at nine-thirty. Meeting room C, ground floor.”
“I don’t have my diary open at the moment. I’m not sure what I’m doing –”
“I’m asking you to give this priority, Serena … as your line manager.”
“Okay. I’ll let you have some figures in the morning.”
“Oh, I think we have to do better than that. We need to review the whole question of whether the scheme goes ahead.”
“Goes ahead? It’s been approved by the full council. You have no authority to stop it.” Serena was determined to keep the conversation low-key, but could feel her breathing accelerate.
Lee Murfitt’s voice was oily-smooth. “That’s why the meeting will be attended by the deputy chief education officer and the vice-chair of the education committee.”
When the conversation ended, Serena could hear music coming to her from far off. Happiness is a warm gun. And she could smell the cordite.
22
Ralph was concerned about Marnie. She was already looking harassed when he left Glebe Farm early that Friday morning and set off for Northampton. She had to keep the Walker and Co show on the road, which meant a day pinned down on the phone with clients and suppliers. Ralph had volunteered to collect leaflets about the revised summer scheme programme and deliver them to local organisers around the town. Anything to keep the pressure off Marnie.
Serena had phoned early to ask if Marnie could make the collection. She had a meeting arranged at the last minute and had no option but to attend. Marnie thought she sounded strained, but when she had asked Serena about this, her question had been dismissed. Marnie was not fooled; something was going on. She had agreed to make the journey before looking at her commitments for the day.
So it was that Ralph’s venerable Volvo swung off the by-pass and rolled into a district where Victorian terraced houses nestled in with small workshops and factories. He parked outside the print works and emerged soon afterwards carrying a cardboard box which he laid on the front passenger seat. On the top he place
d the typed list of recipients that Serena had faxed over. Using a street map, he worked out a route, numbering each organiser’s name.
It all seemed straightforward enough. He drove off towards the first address.
*
Serena arrived several minutes early and found meeting room C without difficulty. She had been there before for a meeting of the County Youth Service Committee and as she made her way along the corridor, she found herself wondering why they had not simply met in Lee Murfitt’s room, or at least in the deputy chief’s office.
The door was ajar when she approached and she paused, raising a hand to knock. From inside she caught a few words and stopped, hand in the air like a street performer pretending to be a statue.
… all getting out of hand … never authorised this level of expenditure … could be horrendous …
It was Murfitt, her own head of division. Thanks for the support, Lee.
… action do you have in mind? … could cause ripples at this stage …
That was Frobisher, the deputy chief education officer. She had only met him once at a public meeting, a tall bony man with huge hands, fond of his pipe, looking like a woodwork teacher. He was close to retirement and had a lifetime’s experience at handling difficult issues.
… implications … could be playing into their hands … political hot potato …
A woman’s voice. Now what was her name? She was Councillor Rowlett … or Radlett, something like that, a solicitor’s wife from one of the small towns out in the sticks. She had once heard her described as a do-gooder. Let’s hope she is, Serena thought.
She took a deep breath, squared her elegant shoulders and rapped confidently on the door.
*
Parking in the town centre was a nightmare. Ralph had to go twice round the block near the market square before he found a solution. A place that he had previously taken for a disabled parking area was revealed as a designated loading bay, the markings legible when a van vacated the space. Persuading himself that he was indeed making a delivery, Ralph backed up to the kerb and took the box with the remaining leaflets. His last stop of the morning.
