by Leo McNeir
“I give up. You’re talking in riddles, Marnie.”
“Sorry. Not far now.”
They drove along the high street, past the church and the pub, on beyond the shop and the cottages set back from the road behind long gardens filled with vegetables and flowers. Marnie pulled in to the drive of a substantial stone farmhouse built at right angles to the road.
“This is where George Stubbs lives,” said Marnie. “Trust me. He’s our salvation.”
“Really?” Serena looked unconvinced. “How?”
“You want the West Indian community to refute Garth Brandon’s accusation and – most important – be believed?”
“Of course.”
Marnie climbed out and rang the doorbell, beckoning Serena to follow. They were met at the door by George’s wife, Sheila. Inside, the entrance hall was cool and spacious, stone-flagged with an Oriental carpet.
“I hope we’re not imposing on George,” said Marnie.
“Imposing?” Sheila Stubbs looked at the two attractive women standing in her hall and smiled. “He’ll think Christmas has come early. Let me lead the way.”
The living room was an elegant country mixture of blue and white chintz furnishings and matching curtains, two pairs of French windows looking out onto a terrace and the garden beyond. George appeared from another door and invited them to take a seat. They declined Sheila’s offer of refreshment.
“Would you like to speak to George in private?” she said.
“No, not at all,” said Marnie.
George beamed. “Well, this is a nice surprise. What can I do for you, ladies?”
*
Twenty minutes later George’s Range Rover sped up the dual carriageway towards Northampton. At the wheel, he was basking in the presence of the two young women. Beside him, Serena was making another call to Dorothy Vane-Henderson, apologising that a sudden change of plan was making it necessary to delay their meeting yet again. On the back seat, Marnie was engrossed in drafting a text on her laptop computer.
“I say, this is all very exciting,” said George. “Certainly livens up a Monday morning, I can tell you.”
He felt an irresistible urge to reach across and squeeze Serena’s thigh, but he managed to cling doggedly to the wheel with both hands and give almost his full attention to the road.
“Very good of you to help,” Marnie said absently, tapping at the keys. “Do you think we should say The West Indian community or The Afro-Caribbean community?”
Serena ended her call. “Why not just say The black community? We don’t have hang-ups about black these days.”
“Might sound funny coming from George,” said Marnie.
“Oh yeah. Then Afro-Caribbean would be tricky as well. Go for West Indian to be safe. That would at least be factually correct in this case.”
“Right. Okay by you, George?”
“Fine. Whatever you think. I’d paint myself with woad if it’d help.”
He chuckled, then had a fleeting vision of Marnie and Serena rubbing him all over with blue dye. Swallowing hard, he gripped the steering wheel tighter and ploughed on.
Marnie continued tapping. “I think we need to say something like …emphatically deny any involvement whatsoever in this incident … no, alleged incident. How’s that?”
Serena and George chorused in unison. “Great.”
“And we challenge the accuser to produce any evidence of our implication … no … and we challenge those who are making these baseless … er, unfounded accusations to produce the slightest proof … better?”
“Keep going,” said Serena.
“… that we were in any way connected with this attack. How am I doing?”
“It’s good.”
“We don’t even know for sure there was an attack,” said George.
“Good point.” Marnie began tapping again. “ … this so-called attack, for which no verifiable evidence has to our knowledge been produced.”
“That’s better.”
“How are you going to end it?” said Serena.
“By calling on the authorities to release all those in custody unless they can prove they were actually involved.”
“Bingo!”
*
On the steps of the BBC offices in Northampton, Marnie took George aside. She spoke very softly, her face close to his, and had no difficulty in gaining his complete attention.
“Listen, I know this is fun for you, George, and I can see you’re enjoying it all, but before we go inside I want to remind you that what we’re about to do could have serious consequences, repercussions. Just take a moment to think about it. I don’t want to railroad you into something you might regret later.”
“No.”
“If you think this could cause you any embarrassment with your family or friends – or your political party – it’s not too late to pull out now.”
George gripped Marnie’s upper arms in his thick hands. He was almost giddy with excitement.
“Serena has given me her word that the accusations are nothing but a pack of lies,” he said.
“Absolutely, George. Don’t be in any doubt on that score.”
“We’re not letting these thugs come in and damage our community, Marnie, I mean the whole community. Today they’re after the West Indians. Tomorrow it’ll be anyone who doesn’t agree with them. I say we have a go at these bastards now. Let’s do it.”
Marnie leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “You’re stopping the blood from circulating in my arms,” she muttered.
They pushed open the doors and went in.
*
Garth Brandon, immaculately groomed, strode into the central police station shortly before eleven to give his statement of events. He was invited to sit in the reception area. While he waited, thinly concealing his impatience, the duty sergeant handed him a single piece of paper. It was a communiqué issued by the County Constabulary’s press office, announcing the release of the ‘suspects’ on the grounds that a thorough examination of the damaged car had produced no evidence to link them – or anyone else – with the smashed windscreen.
When the noonday edition of the local paper reached the news-stands, the front page contained a report on the smashed windscreen incident and a statement from the West Indian community organisation denying in the most emphatic terms that they were remotely involved in the so-called alleged unwitnessed attack on Garth Brandon’s car. Beside the report was a photograph of the indignant face of the West Indian denouncing the shabby treatment of his fellow-countrymen. Visible in the background was Serena McDowell, whose fine features made her an elegant associate. The West Indian standing centre-stage in the foreground was George Stubbs.
After a busy morning spent dashing between meetings with the media, Marnie, Serena and George repaired to the coffee-house in the town centre, each clutching a copy of the newspaper. They were looking forward to hearing George’s interview for the local radio news and wanted to be back in Knightly St John to catch his television appearances on BBC and ITV regional channels. With luck, he might even manage a few seconds’ slot on the national bulletins. Their only slight disappointment was when they went to the police station to hand in their statement for the press office. They had hoped they might run into Brandon to see his discomfiture for themselves, but he was holding back as long as he dared, to give the story a good run before he came out in person to press home the message.
The three conspirators folded their papers and sat back to relax after their exertions.
George was grinning like an ape. “Well, there’s a cutting for the family album and no mistake.”
He was thrilled that the coffee-house was full of morning shoppers, and he had ostentatiously read his paper so that everyone knew he was on the front page. Being flanked by two eye-catching younger women placed him close to the epicentre of paradise.
“It’ll be interesting to see how Brandon reacts,” Marnie observed over the top of her cappuccino.
“Wh
at do you think he might do?” said Serena.
“One thing’s for sure. He didn’t have a game plan for this scenario.”
George laughed. “You can say that again. The last thing he was expecting was a counter-statement from a West Indian who’s white and looks just like a boring old fart straight out of the ranks of the Tory party!”
“That really doesn’t describe you, George,” said Marnie.
“You don’t think so, my dear?” Under the table his hand began a sideways movement towards her leg.
“Of course not. You’re not old.”
Serena guffawed. George hesitated, figuring out the implications. Marnie smiled sweetly.
“You think we’ve got Brandon on the run?” said Serena.
Marnie shrugged. “Only for now. We mustn’t get complacent. Who knows what he might try next? We may have won this round, but that could make him more desperate.”
“You don’t really think he could win the election, do you, Marnie?”
“That isn’t his aim. It isn’t what this is about.”
“No?” Serena frowned. “Then why’s he going to all this trouble?”
“I agree,” said George. “They’re not going to win outright. Brandon knows that. What he’ll judge as a success is if he can disrupt lives and cause conflict in the community.”
“So we have to block him whenever he tries to do that,” said Serena.
“Partly,” said Marnie.
“Meaning?”
“If we just react to what he does, he’ll always have the initiative. We need some way of countering him pro-actively.”
“That’s why I adlibbed that bit in my interview, encouraging parents to send their children to your summer scheme,” said George. “I wanted to end on a positive note.”
“That was brilliant,” said Serena.
“Good thinking,” said Marnie.
George could hear angels singing. He desperately wanted the two women simultaneously to kiss him on each cheek there and then in full view of everyone. But that only happened in the movies.
*
In the Range Rover on the journey back to Knightly St John, Serena turned to look at Marnie. “What you were saying in the coffee-shop, about what Brandon might do … You really think he might react in some way?”
“Oh, he’ll react all right. That’s guaranteed.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because we’re playing his game, even using his rules: play a sneaky trick and time it for maximum advantage. The game now is to try to guess what he’ll do next.”
“Any ideas about that, Marnie?” said George.
“Well, he’s bound to have a number of plans for legitimate action, things relating to his election campaign, such as provocative public meetings, inflammatory speeches, offensive press releases, everything possible to stir up public opinion, keeping just within the law. But he might also have some dirty tricks up his sleeve.”
“He’ll have to be careful,” said George. “He can’t afford to be seen to be personally involved in anything disreputable or violent. We’ve seen how he thinks with this first stunt. He’s tried to portray himself as a victim, putting the blame on the black community.”
“He doesn’t need to do anything personally,” said Marnie. “He’s got a whole army of thugs backing him, remember. He can keep his distance from all that and just say it’s a symptom of the troubled age we live in, the whites being compelled to defend themselves from black aggression.”
Serena groaned with exasperation. “This is a nightmare. All we’ve got is a kids’ play scheme.”
“Not quite,” said George. “We’ve also got a secret weapon.”
“We have?”
“Of course. We’ve got Marnie on our side.”
“Huh!” Marnie exclaimed weakly from the back seat. “I don’t want to worry you two, but I haven’t got a single idea about what to do next.”
“There may be something we can do.” Serena sounded determined. “We can beef up the programme with more outings, keep the kids away from potential trouble for as long as we can all summer.”
They drove on for a few miles in silence, and George, adjusting the rear-view mirror, could see that the secret weapon was lying back against the head-rest with her eyes closed. He kicked himself mentally for putting extra pressure on her. Beside him, Serena was looking out of the window, her expression blank, a small portable grey cloud hovering above her head. He racked his brain to find a master plan that would solve all their problems, but imagination had never been his strong point.
At the familiar sign he turned off the dual carriageway and headed for home, a feeling of anti-climax enveloping the car as he took the country road that led to the village high street.
“George?”
The sudden sound of his name coming from behind made him start. “What is it, Marnie?”
“Can you stop at the school?”
“I was going to take you both to Glebe Farm. It’s no trouble.”
“To Glebe –? Oh no. I need a word with Margaret Giles. Are you free this evening, George, early on, say around six o’clock?”
“I think so, probably, I suppose, don’t think I’ve got any plans.”
“What about you, Serena? Would that be difficult with the children?”
“I’d need to check with Rod. Would it be for the whole evening?”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead. Tell me, when does the summer scheme actually start? Is it next week?”
“Monday. Why?”
“Monday,” Marnie repeated to herself. “Blimey! Oh well …”
The whole school seemed to be in the playground when the Range Rover pulled up outside. There was some sort of competition, with all the children wearing coloured sashes of red, green, blue or yellow. One of the teachers, armed with a whistle, was controlling some kind of relay race that involved running with an enormous inflated beach ball. The noise level was impressive, matching the enthusiasm of the competitors and spectators. Stepping inside the school gate, Marnie waved to attract the attention of the head teacher who was standing near the finish line with the school secretary. Margaret detached herself and came over, accepting Marnie’s invitation onto the pavement.
They spoke for a few minutes, Margaret listening carefully. She finally nodded and took her leave with a smile. George insisted that he convey his ladies down to Glebe Farm.
*
Thank goodness for Anne, Marnie thought, as she sat on the platform in the school hall watching the parents and staff trickle in. Walker and Co had been kept operating that day by a girl who was barely seventeen, but who had managed the office, dealt with correspondence and kept the builders happy while she, Marnie, had spent half the day gallivanting and trying to save the world. Get real, Marnie, you’ve got a business to run! Now, there was Anne distributing leaflets to everyone arriving, with a cheerful word for them all.
Beside her on the platform, Serena and Margaret Giles were going through the list of activities planned for the first week of the summer holidays. The typed programme now contained several additions that Serena had marked in pencil with arrows in the margin.
Marnie leaned sideways and spoke softly. “Serena, it may be a little late for raising this, but can you actually afford to provide all these extra trips? I mean, coaches don’t come cheap.”
“The question is, Marnie, can we afford not to provide them?”
“That’s what Ralph would call a politician’s answer.” Marnie smiled ruefully. “You haven’t got a budget, have you?”
Serena spoke quietly but firmly. “I’d sooner face the consequences of a reprimand or a sacking by the education authority than the possibility of a street war with New Force.”
“I wonder if that’s what Ralph would call a statesman’s answer,” said Margaret Giles.
In the body of the hall there was much talk of the front page George Stubbs article and when he walked in, every head turned to follow him as he made his wa
y nonchalantly to the platform, kissed Serena and Marnie on both cheeks and took a seat in the middle of the front row beside Luther and Ralph. Estelle was delayed, waiting for a phone call from Italy, and would arrive when she could.
When the meeting got underway, the head teacher welcomed the company and invited Marnie to say a few words. Marnie wasted no time. She explained that a more ambitious programme was now planned for the summer scheme and introduced Serena to go through the arrangements. It was while Serena was talking that Marnie heard running feet outside. From her elevated position on the platform, she had a glimpse through the hall windows of rapid movement in the playground. There was a muffled crash from the front door. Seconds later one of the doors into the hall swung outwards and remained open. Marnie tensed, seeing in the shadows a dark shape, fearing for an instant that someone was going to throw a fire bomb into the gathering.
The audience were oblivious of the action behind them, but Anne, from her seat at the end of the front row, picked up on Marnie’s anxiety. She got up quietly and stood at the side as if in readiness to give out more leaflets. Casually, she turned to look in the direction of the entrance, but was badly placed to see through into the lobby. Whoever was there was shielded from her by the door.
On the platform Marnie hoped that no-one was aware of her concern. She was alarmed that Anne might go to investigate, but at the moment their eyes met, the door swung shut with a clatter. As unobtrusively as she could, Anne walked calmly to the rear of the hall and slipped quietly out. Marnie’s anxiety abated as she glimpsed more high speed movement in the playground. This time she had a clear view of the runner. Sprinting across the tarmac in grey sweatshirt and black jeans was Donovan Smith, who broke stride for an instant to hurl something behind him. To Marnie’s relief, there was no explosion, and Anne returned to her seat as if nothing had happened. The only outward difference was that she was carrying a folded newspaper.
*
There was the usual milling about at the end of the meeting, with several parents clustered around Serena. A few others were speaking with George, who was relishing his new-found glory. Some latecomers were gathered round Anne, asking for the new programme, and Marnie was collared by Sylvia Wilkinson, the mother she had met at the previous meeting, wanting reassurance about the safety of the summer scheme. The caretaker made his rounds, conspicuously checking that all doors were closed, jangling his keys. The hint was taken, and the participants began drifting towards the exit. Serena was heard laughing, and Marnie turned to see her across the hall with a hand on Luther’s shoulder, the two of them sharing a joke that had convulsed them. With her attention diverted, Marnie almost walked into Estelle who swept in, breathless.