Mummyfesto, The

by Green, Linda

  She looked at me over the top of her glasses, a bemused expression on her face. ‘I’d love to help you, my dear, but I’m afraid when you get past eighty you don’t tend to carry them about with you.’

  I shut my eyes and waited for a hole to appear beneath my feet which would swallow me up and save me from the humiliation I had just brought on myself. It didn’t. ‘No, no, of course you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry. I’m clearly not thinking straight. I do apologise.’

  She smiled affably and I turned and shuffled away from her. There was nothing for it, I was going to have to ask the chair of the Tory Party for a tampon. She was at least a woman. And I was pretty sure she wasn’t much older than me.

  I tapped her on the shoulder and whispered into her ear. She looked at me with a mixture of pity and contempt.

  ‘Let me have a look,’ she said. A moment later she produced something from her bag and slipped it discreetly into my hand.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘Thank you so much and I’m very sorry to have had to ask.’ I was about to tell her I took back everything I’d ever said about the Tories, but I decided not to get myself into any more trouble. I dashed back to the toilets. She used a different brand to mine. For a second I wondered if the warning about toxic shock syndrome on all the leaflets might actually turn out to be Tory shock syndrome in my case and my body might reject it, as if it were an organ donated by an alien species. I took a deep breath and inserted it. We were it seemed, all the same on the inside after all.

  Patrick Stewart had arrived by the time I got back and we were all hurried through on to the set. The audience clapped, more for him than anyone else I suspected.

  I was going through the questions over and over in my head. My answers sounded fine to me, but I couldn’t help thinking that once they left my mouth they would turn into utter drivel. I tried not to think about Anna and Sam watching at home, sure that they would both have made a better job of this than me. I did up and undid the button on my jacket twice before deciding to leave it open in case it looked as if it were pulling a bit. There was nothing worse than a woman stuffed into something a size too small for her. I was glad it was top half only and they couldn’t see how tight my trousers were. Although it was a shame they were missing out on my shoes. They were bloody nice shoes.

  I was pretty uncontroversial on the first couple of questions, which were about the economy and the euro. And then we got on to the one I’d been waiting for. The one about the youth unemployment figures.

  ‘Jackie Crabtree,’ said Dimbleby. ‘How can we give our young people hope of finding a job in the current economic climate?’

  ‘Well, the Lollipop Party would offer full employment to the under-twenty-fives,’ I said. ‘We’d create thousands of jobs by investing in public transport, manufacturing, green industries, more NHS staff, more social workers and more teachers. And for those who still didn’t have a job we’d offer paid employment as community workers on the living wage rather than job seeker’s allowance.

  ‘It is a national scandal that so many people are essentially written off in the job market at such a young age and this government should be ashamed of its record.’

  There was a loud round of applause from the audience. Even a few whoops. I tried not to look at Baroness Warsi, scared she might ask for her tampon back for insulting her party. She didn’t. I relaxed a little, though not so much that my trouser button would pop.

  I felt myself growing in confidence with each question. I even managed to forget about my face a little. At least until there was a question about domestic violence.

  ‘I think I should make it clear at this point that my facial injuries were caused by an overenthusiastic game of Buckaroo last night. But for many people watching this, that will not be the case. Domestic violence has long been treated as a minority issue. Politicians pay lip-service to it, but nothing changes. The Lollipop Party will fund women’s refuges throughout the country. We will also fund a national charity, based in the Calder Valley constituency, called the White Ribbon Campaign, which is working with boys and young men to bring about an end to male violence against women. We will pay for anti-domestic violence education at every school in the UK and we will not stop until it is eradicated. No other political party can match that because no other political party puts women and children first.’

  My earrings were still swinging wildly as I finished speaking. There was a massive round of applause from the audience. When it finally died down Patrick Stewart reached across the table to shake my hand.

  ‘I’ve waited for a long time to hear a politician say that,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m voting Lollipop.’

  ‘May the force be with you.’ I grinned. And regretted it immediately when I realised it was from the wrong film.

  ‘I told you not to mention Star Trek,’ said Sam, when she phoned me on my mobile on the way home in the taxi.

  ‘I know, but you said nothing about Star Wars.’

  ‘Did you know about his background? That he was a supporter of Refuge and that? I had no idea.’

  ‘Nor did I till I did some research.’

  ‘Wow, so you actually did some homework?’

  ‘Teachers do the best kind of homework. The “read Wikipedia in two minutes to know everything you need to know” variety. Anyway, I didn’t say it just to get him onside. I said it because it’s what we believe in.’

  ‘Well the good news is the “I’m voting Lollipop” hashtag started trending on Twitter within a couple of minutes. Followed shortly afterwards by ‘Star Trek v. Star Wars.’

  ‘So even Anna’s pleased with me, then?’

  ‘Of course she is. Although she’s probably wondering how the hell she’s going to follow that on Radio 4.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell her she can boldly go where no woman has been before.’

  ‘So you do know the right line.’

  ‘Yep. Brain just wasn’t functioning properly. I blame Baroness Warsi’s tampon. I think it may have been drugged.’

  ‘What on earth are you on about?’

  ‘It’s a long story. I’ll tell you in the playground tomorrow. Beam me up, Scottie.’

  18

  ANNA

  I thought it must be an April fool. The first poll since the general election was called had us in third place, above the Lib Dems, at 15 per cent. I put the copy of the Independent down, my hands still shaking, and logged on to my laptop.

  If it was an April fool the BBC news website was doing the same one. As was the Guardian.

  David came into the kitchen. I hoped he wouldn’t think I had left the paper deliberately on his table mat like that. I saw him glance at the headline then do a double-take and go back and look at it again more carefully.

  ‘I thought it was an April fool myself,’ I said. ‘It seems not.’

  I was careful not to smile as I said it, or to give any indication of the multi-million-pound firework display which was going off inside me.

  ‘Happened to Clegg last time,’ he said. ‘Massive peak after the first leadership debate. Then the tabloids started getting at him. That’s as good as it gets, I’m afraid. It’s downhill all the way from here.’

  I nodded, deciding not to rise to the bait. Although inside I was sure this wasn’t some flash in the pan. We had the momentum now. And if the response on Twitter of the past few days was anything to go by, we could only get bigger.

  ‘I was thinking of going out about eleven, once the kids are up,’ I said, as I filled the kettle. ‘With the leaflets I mean.’

  David shrugged. ‘Sure, that’s fine by me. I’ve got plenty to be getting on with.’ I put the kettle down heavily on its stand.

  ‘You’re not coming with us?’

  David laughed. ‘Of course not. Why would I do that?’

  ‘Er, because I’m your wife, perhaps?’

  ‘I think you’re forgetting that I’m also a Liberal Democrat councillor.’

  �
��And that’s more important, is it?’

  ‘I can hardly campaign for the opposition, can I? There are rules against that sort of thing. They’d throw me out. Surely you realised that?’

  I turned back to the kettle, the colour rising in my cheeks. Of course he couldn’t. I should have realised. It didn’t stop it hurting though.

  ‘Yes, of course. I don’t think the kids will understand that, though. They were looking forward to us all going out together.’

  ‘Well I’m sure you can explain it to them. It will be a good exercise in democracy, won’t it? The fact that every person has the right to their own opinion. To vote the way they see fit. Regardless of what those around them are saying or doing.’

  Put like that he made it sound as if I were the one who was being unreasonable. Maybe I was. Maybe I had a bloody cheek to expect my husband to offer any kind of support when I was standing against the party he’d supported and worked hard for all his adult life. And when I was adding insult to injury by achieving more in a few weeks than he had in twenty-odd years.

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I said. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine.’

  ‘I still can’t believe Dad’s not coming,’ said Will, as we set off down the road armed with rucksacks full of leaflets.

  ‘I told you, it’s against party rules.’

  ‘What about family rules?’

  ‘There aren’t any,’ I replied.

  ‘Yes there are,’ said Esme. ‘Lights off at eight o’clock, no talking with your mouth full. There are lots of them.’

  ‘I wasn’t talking about those sorts of rules, love. I was simply explaining that just because Daddy isn’t coming leafleting with us, it doesn’t mean he isn’t supporting us.’

  Even as I said it I realised it sounded pathetic. Will gave me his best ‘Yeah right, whatever’ look. Clearly he thought so too.

  ‘So is he campaigning against you?’ asked Charlotte, who until that point had appeared to be engrossed in whatever was on her iPod and not paying any attention at all.

  ‘Not this afternoon he isn’t, no.’

  ‘But on other days is he? Is he leafleting for Laura whatever her name is?’

  ‘Jenkins. I suppose so. I don’t know for sure. I haven’t asked.’

  It was Charlotte’s turn to give me a look. One that involved raised eyebrows. Any other time I’d have been happy to have sparked a response in her, seen a bit of an appetite for a fight. Unfortunately, I hadn’t really wanted it to be against her father.

  ‘Right,’ I said, as we reached the bottom of the road. ‘We’ll start here. Will, if you and Charlotte do the other side of the road, I’ll do this side with Esme. One leaflet in each letterbox. If anyone comes out to ask a question give me a shout and I’ll come over.’

  ‘Why can’t we knock on the doors?’ Esme asked.

  ‘Because people don’t like being bothered by politicians, especially not on a bank holiday Monday.’

  ‘But I want to tell them to vote for you.’

  ‘We don’t tell them, sweetheart. We ask them. And if anyone comes out to talk to us, that’s what we’ll do.’

  Esme nodded. She looked resplendent in her purple jacket, which she now called her lollipop jacket, and her Lollipop Party sticker. Will and Charlotte had been more reluctant to wear theirs. Until I’d mentioned the extra pocket money for doing a good job, that was.

  The first house on our side had a ‘beware of the dog’ sign, so I told Esme to wait at the gate. The offending creature tore the leaflet from me as soon as I poked it through the letter box. I imagined it lying in shreds on the mat. I supposed it was a political rite of passage, up there with kissing babies, although I was quite sure I would draw the line at that.

  ‘We can’t do that one, Mummy,’ said Esme, pointing to the next house. ‘They’ve got a different colour poster up.’ I eyed the ‘Vote Lib Dem’ poster in the window, wondering if it was someone David knew.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said. ‘We can still put our leaflet through. That’s how you get people to change their mind, or at least see another point of view.’

  ‘They might like our colours better too,’ said Esme, taking a leaflet from me and popping it through the letterbox. ‘I don’t like the yellowy one. It looks a bit like cat sick.’

  I smiled quietly to myself.

  By Wednesday afternoon, when I walked down the road to the station, cat-sick yellow was no longer the prevalent colour. There was purple. Lots of it. The Lollipop Party poster from the back of our leaflets. It made it seem real, somehow; convinced me that this wasn’t some fantasy I was playing out in my head. People were actually planning to vote for us. They believed in what we believed. I was tempted to do a little dance in the street. Only my pull-a-long overnight case stopped me – and the worry that someone might look out of their window and change their mind.

  The whole Radio 4 thing didn’t seem quite so daunting any more. We were there on merit. We were doing better in the polls than any of the other minor parties. Better than all of them put together, to be honest. Some people were even saying we should be invited to the real leadership debates, not just Radio 4’s alternative one. We wouldn’t be, of course. But it was still nice that they were saying it.

  There were some things about London I missed. The anonymity, for one. While part of me liked the fact that everyone knew everyone else in Hebden Bridge, another part of me craved the idea of walking down the street and seeing a sea of unfamiliar faces. You could lose yourself here, if you wanted to. And there was something to be said for that.

  I missed the noise too. The chance to let it blot everything else from your thoughts, to allow it to carry you along the street to wherever it was you were going next. You couldn’t do that in Yorkshire. At first I’d thought that was a good thing, but now I wasn’t so sure.

  Returning to London was a little like running into an ex-boyfriend. There was a lurching feeling in your stomach as you remembered the things you liked, the things you missed, the things you couldn’t seem to get from anywhere else. It was a bit of a thrill, being reminded of all the great times you’d had. But tempting as it was to give it another try, you knew it was a bad idea. Because whatever it was that had made you leave was probably still there. And if you looked hard enough you’d surely find it again.

  I stepped off the train at King’s Cross station. Even that was a bit of a disappointment. I could still remember the time when you could slam the train door shut behind you. They hadn’t yet invented anything which gave as satisfying a feeling as that and I doubted they ever would.

  I made my way towards the snack shop near the departure boards. David had always teased me about the fact that I was the only woman he knew who was unable to walk past a health food shop or stall without going in. It wasn’t there, though. Everything had changed. The arrivals side of the concourse was empty and a notice pointed to the shiny new departure area on the other side.

  I went down to the tube station and was again reminded of how long I’d been away. There were those with Oyster cards and there were those without. And I was in the without camp. Not having one gave you a tiny inkling of what it might be like to arrive in this country as a refugee. I joined the queue of mainly foreign visitors and stood tapping my fingers on the handle of my case as the official Londoners whizzed past me, fast-tracked through the system. Some of them hadn’t even been born here and yet they were now more London than me. I wondered if they had any idea how fragile their status as Londoners actually was that if they went away for only a short time the city would move on relentlessly without them and they would find themselves craving acceptance on their return.

  I shuffled forward, everyone else in the queue seemed to be speaking in a foreign language. Maybe that explained why when I finally got to the counter the man behind spoke very slowly and in a loud, deliberate voice.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘I’m from London. I moved away, but I do still understand the language, even a south London accent.’

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bsp; He raised his eyebrows and said something like ‘hummpphh’ before handing me the appropriate form. Some time later, and after more form-filling than I suspected you needed for a passport application, I came away with a smart Oyster card wallet. It was only when I opened it up to look at the card that I saw they’d given me a commemorative Jubilee one. My first thought was to take it back. Sam would surely kick me out of the party for disloyalty to the republican cause, but one look at the queue changed my mind. I’d just have to destroy it once north of Watford again.

  At least my parents’ house could be relied upon to stand still in time. Everything was as it had always been. It was only the fact that my father was now rather stooped and that my mother’s sleek dark hair had been replaced by a sleek grey bun that reassured me I had not emerged from the tube station into some kind of timewarp.

  ‘Hello, Anna, lovely to see you,’ my mother said, kissing me on both cheeks. Her obvious pleasure at seeing me only succeeded in making me feel bad about how little I visited. How little we all visited, come to that.

  I don’t think she’d ever got over me leaving. Our family was not the type that had sprawled out all over the country. My brother, Charlie, and his family were less than a mile away. I don’t think they could understand why London hadn’t been enough for me. Most of all I don’t think my mother had understood why I’d taken Will and Charlotte away from her. It hadn’t been too bad when they were small: we used to make the effort to come down to see them a lot more and both of the children would chatter away happily to her on the phone. But we didn’t get down nearly as often these days, and Will and Charlotte were both pretty monosyllabic on the rare occasions I could get them to the phone. Esme still talked to her, of course. It was difficult to shut her up. But I suspected my mother felt that to all intents and purpose she had lost the older two.

  I kissed my father, feeling the frailness of his body as I held him. Fortunately his mind still had a youthful energy; he may have retired from lecturing now, but he was mentally as sharp as ever. Which was a huge relief really, as it was the one thing I couldn’t bear to think of: him losing his faculties in the way Jackie’s mother had. I don’t think my father could have coped with it. I suspected he’d gladly lose the use of a limb or two in return for keeping his brain intact.