Mummyfesto, The

by Green, Linda

  I followed them through to the lounge, my mother’s piano still taking pride of place. I ran my fingers along the closed lid, remembering the hours I’d sat at it as a child.

  ‘You’re welcome to play, Anna,’ Mum said.

  I smiled and shook my head. ‘It’s been a long time.’

  ‘You never play at home?’

  ‘I never seem to get the chance these days.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I imagine this campaign is taking up rather a lot of your time.’

  ‘The polls are looking good,’ Dad said. ‘Extraordinarily good, to be honest.’

  ‘I know. I could hardly believe it myself. Whether it will last, we’ll just have to see.’

  ‘I expect the children are very excited about it,’ Mum said, plumping a cushion on the sofa for me.

  ‘Yes. Yes they are,’ I replied.

  ‘And David must be an enormous help,’ she added, ‘what with all his political experience.’

  I smiled and nodded. Remembering now why we came down so rarely.

  Arriving at the BBC was like going to a rather bizarre job interview where all the other applicants just happened to be leaders of political parties. Except, of course, we were well aware that the top three candidates for the big job were being interviewed on another day, we were merely the warm-up act.

  I gave my name at the reception desk and clipped on my visitor’s pass while the receptionist called up to let them know I’d arrived.

  ‘Someone will be down for you in a minute.’ She smiled. ‘Do take a seat.’

  I perched myself on the edge of a trendy purple sofa and straightened the collar of the crisp white shirt I had put on that morning. I’d gone for a black suit with a crop jacket and a long straight skirt. Businesslike, I thought, was the order of the day.

  I had just picked up a copy of the Guardian from the coffee table when I heard a voice enquire ‘Anna?’

  I looked up, the speaker was a man around my age, maybe a couple of years younger, with dark hair which, though cut very stylishly, still managed to look slightly messy.

  ‘Gavin Joyce, assistant producer,’ he said, holding out his hand.

  ‘Anna Sugden,’ I said, standing up and shaking it. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

  ‘Not at all. I trust you’re impressed that we’ve got sofas in your party’s colours. I hope the others don’t notice otherwise we’ll have fresh allegations of BBC bias on our hands.’

  I smiled, not knowing what to be more impressed with: the fact that he knew the Lollipop Party’s colours or that he was capable of humour before seven in the morning.

  He swiped us through the security area and into a lift.

  ‘You’re the first here, actually,’ he said. ‘Which is probably a good thing as it will give me a chance to go through everything with you before all hell breaks loose.’

  I nodded and followed him out at the second floor and through to the studio area. Looking into the glass studio I could see John Humphrys’ head poking out from behind various pieces of equipment. Around the other side of the table six microphones were placed a small distance apart from each other. Six chairs crammed in around the desk.

  ‘It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze, I’m afraid,’ Gavin said. ‘We only had five people last time, but you guys have rather forced your way into the frame.’

  ‘Yeah,’ I smiled, ‘I guess we have.’

  Gavin leant in close to me. ‘I’m probably not supposed to say this, but your party is an absolute breath of fresh air. All those tired old arguments and then you come along with a radically different agenda and turn everything on its head.’

  ‘Most people just think we’re crazy,’ I said. ‘Especially men.’

  ‘Oh, you’re crazy all right, but you’re clever with it. And when you’re running a topical-news programme, crazy and clever are exactly what you need.’

  I smiled again, conscious of the colour rising in my cheeks. I wasn’t used to this. Being out there. Having political conversations with men I didn’t know. Having any type of conversation with men I didn’t know, come to that.

  ‘I don’t suppose you think we can actually win, though,’ I said.

  Gavin looked up from a pile of papers he had been flicking through on his desk.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Convention. Money. Hundreds of years of tradition. The fact that at this very moment the editors of the tabloids are probably thinking of ways to annihilate us.’

  Gavin smiled. ‘Ah, don’t let the little things put you off. I’d say you’re worth a tenner as an outside bet. You can still get bloody good odds on you.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your conviction,’ I replied. ‘I hope you enjoy your winnings.’

  Gavin’s phone buzzed. ‘Right, you’ll have to excuse me,’ he said, ‘Galloway’s arrived. If you don’t mind pouring a saucer of milk while I get him, I’m sure it would be much appreciated.’

  Half an hour later I was in the studio, positioned only a few feet away from George Galloway and still not daring to look at him in case I started laughing about what Gavin had said.

  We were positioned boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, around the table in what I suspected might be a prank on Gavin’s behalf. If you’d told me three months ago I’d ever end up sandwiched between George Galloway and Alex Salmond on Radio 4, I would have laughed you out of the room.

  Caroline Lucas smiled at me in what I suspected was sisterly support. Sam, who appeared to regard her as nothing short of the green goddess of alternative politics, had actually suggested I ask her to defect to our party. Jackie, of course, had merely asked if I could find out how she kept her eyebrows so well maintained.

  The format of the leadership debate had been explained to us quite clearly in advance. We had three minutes each to make an opening statement, after which Humphrys would be asking us questions, some of which had been suggested by Radio 4 listeners.

  I had my speech typed out in front of me. I had practised it so many times I suspected I wouldn’t even need to look at it, but it was there anyway as a sort of grownup comfort blanket.

  Alex Salmond went first, sounding rather, well, Scottish really. He was followed by Nigel Farrage, who, until I’d told Jackie otherwise, she’d thought had actually died in that helicopter crash before the last election.

  And then it was me. Broadcasting to the nation. And loving it. Loving every second. So much so that I didn’t want my three minutes to end. When it did, I looked up to find the men were all staring at me, as if realising that I wasn’t there to make up the numbers at all. And that softly spoken mothers-of-three in suits from Jigsaw could actually have something interesting and powerful to say.

  I glanced out through the glass to where Gavin was sitting at his desk, headphones on and a suitably impressed expression on his face. And I felt good. For the first time in a long, long time, I felt good about myself.

  The debate started with a question about the economy. I put forward our views about creating jobs and introducing the living wage. At the end of it both Caroline Lucas and George Galloway said, ‘I agree with Anna,’ at exactly the same moment. I almost fell off the chair. It was my own ‘I agree with Nick’ moment. Only as soon as I thought of that it worried me. If you googled Nick Clegg the suggestions it came up with were Nick Clegg looking sad and Nick Clegg jokes. I didn’t want to go there. I thought of David listening at home. If indeed he was listening. And wondered if he agreed with anything I’d said. Strangely, I didn’t even know any more.

  ‘Was I OK?’ I asked Gavin quietly when we emerged from the studio, forty minutes later.

  ‘No,’ he said. I must have looked worried because he broke into a smile straight away. He leant closer to me. ‘If I’d been scoring points, which I wasn’t, of course, I’d say you won by a country mile. I think I shall put a bet on for you to win your seat on the strength of that.’

  I grinned at him. ‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’

  ‘No. I hope you know
what you’re doing,’ he replied. ‘Because you could end up running the country.’

  I spent most of the journey home on the train catching up on the response to the debate on Twitter and the BBC news website, where the general consensus seemed to be that I had acquitted myself pretty well. And being congratulated by Sam, of course, who called from the school playground, with Jackie whooping in the background, to say what a fantastic job I’d done.

  By the time I got to Leeds the Lollipop Party was up to thirty thousand followers on Twitter. It was hard to keep up with them all, but I followed back as many as I could. Caroline Lucas was one of them. And Gavin from Radio 4. It was not surprising really. When I looked at his profile he followed pretty much every politician on Twitter. I sent him a message when I followed him back. ‘Good to meet you. Thanks again for having me on. Hope you’re not wasting your money.’

  The reply came almost instantly. ‘No worries. Good to meet you too. It’s much more fun to back the dark horse.’

  19

  SAM

  ‘The father of your children is a depraved sicko.’ Rob came in the back way through to the kitchen with a huge grin on his face when he said it, which was why I didn’t take it seriously at first.

  ‘What makes you say that?’ I asked, looking up at him from the packed lunches I was making for Zach and Oscar.

  ‘It’s not me, who says it. It’s the Daily Express.’ He slapped a copy of the newspaper, which he had cunningly hidden inside the Guardian, on to the kitchen counter. The frontpage story was something about benefit cheats. But there was a panel across the top which read, ‘Lollipop Party Leader’s Boyfriend in Nude OAP Shame’.

  I looked up at Rob. ‘I don’t believe it. This is about you.’

  ‘Yep. If you turn to page five you get the whole story. The one where they call me depraved for painting shocking pictures of naked pensioners’ genitalia.’

  ‘But this is ridiculous,’ I said. ‘What the hell has this got to do with the election?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s called muck-raking. They get to publish pictures of naked people and stir up a whole hoo-ha about nothing in an effort to besmirch your good name.’

  I turned to page five. They had indeed used pictures of two of Rob’s paintings. They’d even slapped a ‘censored’ banner over one of them.

  ‘Oh, this is outrageous.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Rob. ‘It’s incredible exposure for my work. I’ll probably sell a shedload of them after this.’

  ‘Come on,’ I said. ‘I’m being serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘What about your models?’ I asked. ‘I can’t imagine they’ll be happy about having their wobbly bits plastered all over a national newspaper.’

  ‘I’m going to call them in a minute. But knowing Betty and Norman I imagine they’ll think it’s quite a giggle.’

  ‘But that’s not the point is it? They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.’ I realised I was gesticulating wildly with the vegetable knife and promptly put it down.

  ‘Hey, chill out,’ said Rob, taking hold of my shoulders. ‘Do you honestly think anyone’s going to decide not to vote for you because your partner paints pictures of elderly people without their clothes on?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. What I’m saying is we should complain. Where the hell did they get the photo of you from, anyway?’

  ‘From the exhibition brochure.’

  ‘And what about the paintings?’

  ‘Rebecca from the Mill rang me yesterday and told me she’d caught someone taking photos. She asked them to leave, but didn’t really think any more of it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you. Anyway, you said yourself the tabloids would be taking potshots at you now. If this is the best they can do it’s bloody hilarious, if you ask me.’

  I heard Zach’s footsteps coming down the stairs. ‘Put it away,’ I said. ‘I don’t want the boys to see it.’

  ‘Why not? They saw the exhibition.’

  ‘Just put it away,’ I repeated sharply.

  Zach came into the kitchen in his rocket pyjamas, still yawning and rubbing his eyes.

  ‘Morning, sweetheart,’ I said. ‘Toast or cornflakes?’

  ‘Have you got marmalade?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Toast with marmalade then, please.’

  ‘OK. Daddy will do it for you while I go and get your brother sorted. Is he awake?’

  ‘No. I haven’t heard him at all.’

  I hurried upstairs and into Oscar’s room. It wasn’t unusual to have to wake him up for school, but it did tend to make him grumpy for his morning routine. I drew the curtains back, letting the light pour into the room. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked his arm. I always liked to touch him before I took the night ventilator off. I didn’t like the first human contact he received in the morning to be essentially a medical one.

  Oscar’s eyelids flickered open then closed again.

  ‘Morning, love,’ I said, nuzzling his face and kissing him on the cheek.

  ‘I need a drink,’ he said. ‘My throat’s sore.’

  I sat up immediately. ‘When did this start?’

  ‘Just now. When I woke up.’

  ‘It wasn’t sore last night?’

  ‘No.’

  I nodded, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face. A sore throat wasn’t some little thing for Oscar. A sore throat could lead to a cough or a cold, which could lead to all sorts of complications. Complications I didn’t even want to think about.

  ‘I’ll get you some water,’ I said. When I returned I helped Oscar to sit up and he drank it straight down.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said.

  Maybe it was nothing. Maybe had had simply been thirsty. I took his temperature. It was within the normal range. I let out a deep sigh of relief. Managed a proper smile.

  ‘Right then, mister,’ I said. ‘Let’s get you up and ready.’ I swivelled him around so his legs were hanging over the side of the bed. I hated seeing him sitting like that. His stick-like legs devoid of any muscle hanging limply down. He reminded me of Pinocchio. And what I wanted more than anything else in the world was for him to be a real boy. To wake up one day and find that he did have proper legs after all and to leap up and dance around the bedroom singing ‘I’ve Got No Strings’. That wasn’t ever going to happen, though. Because we didn’t have a blue fairy. And real life wasn’t a Disney film.

  I lifted Oscar up, careful to keep my back straight as the occupational therapist had shown me, and headed towards the bathroom. As we got there he sneezed over my left shoulder. I stopped, feeling the vibrations of the sneeze going through my entire body. My stomach tightened. Everything tightened. And I knew it would stay that way until the next sneeze. Whenever that would be.

  The three of us were sitting round my kitchen table that evening.

  ‘I think it’s hilarious,’ said Jackie, wiping her eyes and smudging her mascara as she looked at the headline in the Daily Express for the tenth time. ‘All that digging for sleaze and the best they can come up with is Rob’s painting of some old boy with his todger out. I mean it’s hardly Profumo is it?’

  ‘They’re calling it wrinklywillygate on Twitter. It’s backfired on them massively. People seem to think it’s pathetic of them to try to turn this into a scandal.’

  I looked at them and nodded. I knew they were right. This wasn’t going to do us any harm at all. In fact it would probably do us some good. I suspected our poll ratings would go up even further. And throughout the day Rob had been inundated with enquiries about his work. I guessed it was a case of every cloud and all that. But I still couldn’t help being unnerved by the whole thing. Clearly we were now seen as a legitimate target. And not just the three of us, but our families too. And if they so much as printed a word about any of our children. Well, I daren’t think what I’d do.

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘But I still think we need to
be very much on our guard. Have our wits about us at all times.’

  ‘But if there’s no dirt for them to find,’ said Jackie, ‘then we haven’t got anything to worry about. You’re obviously so squeaky clean that this was the best they could do. I’ve got such a boring past that they’ll struggle to come up with anything more exciting than me once snogging my English teacher under the mistletoe.’

  ‘You never!’ I said.

  ‘I was in the sixth form at the time and I did it for a bet. There were no tongues or anything. And as for Anna, well you’ve only got to look at her to know she’s as pure as the driven snow.’

  Anna smiled and looked down at her laptop.

  ‘I guess so,’ I said. ‘Although it’s our friends and family I worry about. It’s only a matter of time before they discover I live next door to a couple of lesbians.’

  ‘Sue and Caz wouldn’t mind,’ said Jackie. ‘They’d probably think it was a great laugh.’

  ‘It’s not them I’m worried about. It’s Millie. Well, all of our children, to be honest.’

  ‘Let’s hope they’ve learnt their lesson from this,’ said Anna. ‘With any luck having been made to look pretty stupid with this one they’ll leave us all alone.’

  I smiled and nodded at her. I was too distracted by the sound of the Cough Assist machine upstairs to concentrate properly, to be honest.

  Oscar had been sneezy at school and his nose had started running a bit too by home time. The noise of the machine stopped. I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and then Rob popped his head around the door.

  ‘Hey,’ said Jackie, ‘it’s the pensioner pervert from the paper.’

  Rob took a bow, but I could tell by the fact that he didn’t come up with a witty riposte that all was not well.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt. Have you got a minute?’ he said to me.