Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  It bothered Marnie that Ralph said nothing in reply. She had hoped for at least a murmur of agreement, but he sat looking out at the passing scenery as if lost in thought. Anne piped up again from behind.

  “It’s a great programme for the kids. If I’d been a few years younger, I’d have loved to go on all those visits. It’s like lots of holidays rolled into one. And they’ll all make loads of new friends. Great.”

  “That’s true,” said Marnie. “I’ve been thinking so much about the political motives behind it all, I was forgetting it’s being run for the benefit of the children. They’ll have a lovely time. What do you think, Ralph?”

  He managed a smile. “I agree. But somehow I can’t switch my mind off from the other matters.”

  Marnie sympathised. “I know. And we can’t take our eyes off the ball. No time to relax where Brandon’s concerned.” She had a flashback to the dozens of posters that were waiting for them to take down on their return home. “At least today the initiative’s with us. The summer scheme will be positive news. And once the election’s over next week, we can enjoy the rest of the summer.”

  The early cloud cover began dissipating, and a fine day opened up before them. They drove on in better spirits, unaware that their optimism would evaporate in the noonday sun.

  *

  It seemed that everyone had risen early that Monday morning. As Marnie swung the car round the last corner and they saw the school, for one horrible second they thought the BFP had struck here as well. Red, white and blue bunting was strung across the buildings and playground. Balloons of the same colour hung from the walls, and a small crowd of people could be seen on the far side of the yard clustered together by the entrance doors. It would be just like Brandon to organise a BFP rally right here on their all-important first day.

  But then they noticed other colours blending in with the traditional British. There were strings of green and yellow and orange, mixing jauntily with the rest. It was almost a cacophony of colour like a boating regatta or a fun fair. The sight of it all was enough to put a smile on their faces. There was nothing threatening about this display. This was a welcome.

  They caught sight of Serena in pale blue denims and a brilliant white tank top, and as they drew nearer they could make out a group of helpers under her command wrestling with a sheet. Moments later they began to hoist it up, a banner proclaiming Kidscene 4 Summer. Serena stood looking up at the name while photographers took pictures. Her coffee-coloured skin shone against the lightness of her clothing, and anyone could be forgiven for mistaking this for a fashion shoot. Turning, she saw Marnie, Ralph and Anne and beckoned them over. She was radiant.

  “Our time has come,” she said, kissing her friends warmly and perhaps a trifle theatrically.

  “I can see you’re on good form,” said Marnie.

  “I’ve been planning this for so many months, Marnie. It really matters to me. It is so important.”

  Ralph put an arm round her shoulders and squeezed. “Congratulations.”

  Serena laughed. “Thanks. Now all we’ve got to do is make it work, get the kids enrolled and sent off on their trips, keep up the propaganda, stop the place from turning into a battleground. Doesn’t sound too bad if you say it quickly.”

  A man and a woman materialised beside them, one toting a camera with a fat lens, the woman armed with a walkman-sized tape recorder and a notebook.

  “Just a couple more photos, please, Serena? And I need to check a few facts before we go.”

  “You’re going? What about getting pictures of the kids and their parents? That’s the whole idea.”

  “Jason will come back later when the kids are here. If we’re to hit today’s deadline, I’ve got to get the story in straight away.”

  They led her off without looking back.

  “She really is on a high,” Marnie said quietly.

  Anne tugged her sleeve. “Marnie, don’t look now, but Mrs Frightfully-Frightfully is waving at us from over there, by those Land Rovers.”

  They looked in the direction in which Anne was pointing and saw two military-looking vehicles parked at the end of the playground. Each had a canvas roof behind the cab and a tall radio aerial surmounted by a small pennant. People were climbing out. In the middle of a mass of khaki stood Dorothy Vane-Henderson in full W.I. combat regalia, a floral summer dress and sensible shoes. She began striding towards them, and Marnie had a mental image of her as a schoolgirl sallying out to do battle on the hockey field. It was scary. They began walking towards her.

  “What’s this?” Ralph said, without moving his lips. “The Eighth Army?”

  “I’ve an idea it’s the Seventh Cavalry.”

  “I thought they usually arrived at the last minute when everything was lost.”

  “Maybe she knows more than we do.”

  Anne giggled, raising a hand to shield her eyes against the low morning sun. “Surely those are scouts. Were we expecting them?”

  It was too late for an answer. The cavalry commander was upon them.

  “Hallo, all. Well, we’re here.” She beamed.

  Marnie smiled back. “Great. Er, who is here, exactly?”

  “Why, your helpers, as I promised you, sort of. These are scouts, of course. They’ve come as a kind of bonus. We’ll still run the fete, as I said we would.”

  Marnie tried to conceal her bewilderment. “That’s marvellous, Dorothy.” Over her shoulder she could see concerted activity around the Land Rovers. They really did look military, with black and drab green paint in camouflage pattern. Boys in uniform were unloading boxes and bags and stacking them on the pavement while a man in charge checked everything off on a clipboard. “I thought scouts were supposed to be highly disciplined but not run like the military.”

  “That’s right.” Dorothy looked round. “Oh, you mean the Land Rovers. They belong to Gregory Roberts, a sort of hobby. He restores them. They’re ex-army.”

  “Is he ex-army?”

  “No, no. He’s a personnel manager with a big firm in town. He’s also the local scout leader, of course. You can meet him once he’s got the unloading sorted out.”

  “Mrs Vane-Henderson,” Marnie began tentatively. “What are the scouts going to do?”

  “Didn’t I mention that? And do call me Dorothy. They’re going to pitch camp and guard the base.”

  “Make a camp here, in the middle of town, on a concrete playground, on a school site?”

  “Ye-e-s?” Mrs V-H’s one-word answer carried a series of questions along the lines of: Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing? Are we likely to be put off by a small technical difficulty? Do you think I don’t know the chairman of this or that committee who can give us permission to do exactly what we want to do?

  Marnie was trying to think of a suitable response when the man-in-charge arrived among them. He was immaculately turned out in khaki shirt and shorts, with long socks, lanyard and numerous insignia, sturdily-built and broad-chested, his considerable height increased by a traditional scouter’s hat. He touched its brim politely and greeted Marnie and the others with a confident smile while Dorothy made the introductions.

  He addressed Ralph. “Where will the coaches be coming in?”

  “I’m not quite sure. Marnie’s one of the organisers.”

  Marnie pointed towards the Land Rovers. “They’ll be lining up where your, er, vehicles are parked and all down that street.”

  “Then we’d better get signs put up to keep people away. Who’ll deal with that?”

  “The lady over there with the reporters.”

  For the first time Marnie noticed the group of scouts that had formed round their leader.

  “Stephen, Peter, you hop along and see to that. Take three other boys and start putting up the No Parking signs. Ten metre intervals if they’ve got enough.” The boys vanished. “And where will the children be assembling?”

  “Over there by the entrance under the banner.”

  “Good. We’ll pitch camp here,
here and here.” Gregory indicated the spaces. More boys rushed off.

  “You’re going to camp here for some time. Is that right?”

  “I know what you’re thinking, Mrs Walker. But we’ll use the school’s facilities for water supplies and latrines. We’ll patrol the premises and grounds from here. We’ll secure the site, don’t you worry. And we’ll take charge of stewarding when the buses are loading and unloading. We’ll need copies of schedules, the full programme and timetables.”

  Leaving Marnie with no further questions, he marched off towards Serena. Even Anne could think of nothing missing from her list.

  “I suppose they’ll be all right,” Ralph muttered.

  “Of course they’ll be all right,” said Dorothy firmly. Already the playground was alive with efficiency as the scouts lugged their gear into place at the double. “They’ve been all right for the past hundred years. It’s the rest of society that’s gone wrong. Baden-Powell saw it clearly. Give young people discipline and there’s nothing they can’t do.” She looked pointedly at Anne’s clipboard and lists and smiled at her.

  Ralph shrugged. “They’ll possibly be up against thugs like New Force and schemers like Brandon’s BFP.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen here. In a straight contest between the ideals of BP and the BFP my money’s on Greg Roberts’s boys every time. You think Brandon wants the publicity that his supporters attacked the Scout Movement? That would be bad news for his lot. No. You’re in safe hands.”

  *

  With half an hour to go before enrolment, children were already arriving. The scouts were marshalling them into queues at the reception tables, and Serena remarked that she wondered if there was anything left for her to do. At her side the sturdy figure of Scoutmaster Greg Roberts watched over proceedings.

  “This should be no problem,” he asserted. Suddenly he pointed at one scout at the far end of the playground and made a flapping gesture with his hand. The boy began moving to the left. Greg stopped flapping and raised a finger. The boy stopped. It was like a cricket captain repositioning the fielders for a change of bowler. It made Marnie feel they were under the protection of the British Empire. She could not help smiling.

  Serena’s mobile trilled, and she moved away, pulling it from her pocket. Anne saw a news-van pause briefly outside the corner shop across the street.

  “The papers have arrived. I’ll pop over and get one.” She went off at the double.

  “Your boys certainly have things under control,” Marnie said to Greg.

  “It’ll be a walk in the sun.”

  “And the sun, the real one. It won’t bother them, dressed in their uniforms?”

  “Not a bit. BP was right. Light cotton clothing, shorts, a hat to shade the eyes and protect the crown. Perfect.” He swivelled his head towards Anne who was crossing the road. “Whose is that Discovery parked over there, any idea?”

  “It’s mine.”

  “Pleased with it?”

  “So far. It’s very nice. I’ve only had it a few months.”

  “Good little run-around,” said Greg.

  A coach pulled up and two more turned the corner. Scouts waved them to their places in the line. Greg observed, his eyes in shade under the brim of his hat.

  “I think you’re right, Marnie. I think we’ve got things nicely under control.”

  He was about to be proved wrong. Twice.

  Marnie could see Serena switching off her mobile, looking unhappy. She excused herself and walked over.

  “What’s up, Serena?”

  The light had gone out from her eyes, leaving them smouldering. Momentarily Marnie thought she might burst into tears or smash the phone to the ground. The spasm passed, and Serena breathed out steadily before replying.

  “I don’t know what’s the matter with these people. Sometimes I really wonder …”

  “What people?”

  “The blacks.” There was a bitterness in her voice.

  Marnie was shocked. “Who do you mean?”

  Serena skewered her with a look and said slowly, “People with dark skins, you know?”

  “But that’s our lot.” Marnie wondered if she was missing something obvious. “They’re the ones on our side, aren’t they?”

  “You wouldn’t think so, Marnie. You wouldn’t believe it.”

  “Try me. I used to be a quick learner.”

  A long sigh. “It appears that our efforts aren’t universally admired by our brothers. There’s some bad feeling among the black community. Some people feel the kids are being used as part of a political game.”

  “They’ve got a point,” said Marnie. “But it’s Brandon’s game, to stir up trouble and manipulate public opinion. Don’t your critics realise you’re trying to get the kids out of the frame?”

  “Ah well, Marnie, they don’t quite see it like that. They’re not so charitable. Some would say I’m pushing black kids into the firing line to further my own political ambitions.”

  “Do you have political ambitions?”

  “Yes.”

  “But that isn’t what all this is about.”

  “No. My work with the community is where it all started. The more I got involved, the more I realised it’s the politicians who have the say in what gets done. Believe me, Marnie, I thought by being a youth officer I could play a part, but I keep finding myself up against other people’s priorities, the councillors, the senior officers. One day I’ll stand for election myself. Maybe I’ll go on to try for Parliament. Everybody knows that’s my goal. If I get elected, I’ll do a good job. I know I can.”

  “So some suspect you’re using this only as a stepping stone with your own personal agenda.”

  “That’s it. And really, it’s the other way round. This is what’s made me want to go on to other things.”

  “And the phone call?”

  “A friend – huh! – some friend. A warning. There could be trouble from some parts of the Afro-Carib community.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Unspecified. But there are some elements you wouldn’t want to upset.”

  Marnie had heard about rival factions, gangsters who had come to Britain from the West Indies to deal in drugs and prostitution. This could be seriously bad news. They would be assailed on all sides if they lost the support of the black community through fear. Greg Roberts’s calm assurance suddenly seemed illusory.

  She was musing over what might happen to harm the summer scheme when she spotted Anne running across the playground, holding the paper. With Ralph, Dorothy and Greg, Marnie and Serena huddled round Anne who held up the front page. There were no prizes for guessing whose photograph occupied it. Garth Brandon had taken up permanent residence there for as long as they could remember. The surprise was the headline. They’re out to kill me. Beneath it they read: Brandon in Death Threat.

  “Well it wasn’t me,” Serena said through clenched teeth. “The way I feel just now, I’m almost ready to join the BFP.” Seeing the quizzical expressions around her, she quickly added, “Joke.”

  “Do your usual, please, Anne,” said Ralph. “Read it out.”

  “All right. The gist is that Brandon’s demanding police protection, believes his life’s in danger from what he calls ‘extremist elements’.” The group groaned collectively. “It says … In a statement issued from BFP HQ … bla-bla-bla … Garth Brandon called on the police authorities to assign officers to protect him after he received an anonymous threatening phone call …”

  “Untraceable and unverifiable, no doubt,” Ralph interjected.

  Anne continued. “The BFP leader and candidate … bla-bla-bla … stated that his opponents would stop at nothing to stifle his freedom of speech. Brandon added, ‘If I am assassinated the blame will lie squarely with the authorities and the police.’”

  Marnie snorted. “Huh! If he’s assassinated by having posters stuffed down his throat, the blame will lie squarely with me.”

  “You don’t think this is seriou
s?” said Dorothy.

  “It’s a stunt. And it’s worked. There he is back on the front page. Where are his rivals? Nowhere to be seen. He manipulates the press as easily as if he was running the newspaper.”

  “What about our article?” said Serena.

  “It won’t come out till the later edition. You’ll probably find it on page eleven between the gardening tips and the lonely hearts ads.”

  “Oh dear …” Dorothy looked deflated.

  “Sorry,” said Marnie. “I didn’t mean to sound so negative. It’s just that every time we think we’re going forward, we end up taking two steps back.”

  Greg raised an arm towards the playground where crowds of children were thronging the enrolment tables, being shepherded into orderly lines by the scouts. “This isn’t two steps back, Marnie. Look at them. These kids ought to be on the front page.”

  Marnie quickly turned to Serena. “Do you have a number for that photographer?”

  She reached into her back pocket. “I think he gave me his card.”

  “Get him back here. People have got to see this.”

  While Serena used her phone, Marnie and the others watched the disciplined but good-natured crowd control in action. Children holding entry forms were lining up in rows. They were from all races, and their parents made a colourful addition, especially the Asians in flowing saris. Those who had been enrolled were forming into groups around adults who were checking off names on clip-boards. Marnie was just thinking they were like children being evacuated from a war zone when she became aware that someone new had joined them. Standing behind Anne was Donovan Smith.

  When everyone turned to look at him he said simply, “I’ve come to help.”

  A suppressed scream from Serena drew their attention. She held up the mobile.

  “I don’t believe this. He says he’s been called away urgently to get a picture of Garth bloody Brandon.”