Devil in the Detail

by Leo McNeir

  Ahead of him was a pelican crossing conveniently located almost opposite the entrance to the charity shop that was his destination. It was plastered with notices publicising the summer scheme. They were expecting Ralph and were on red alert to snatch the leaflets from him if he only had a second to stop and sprint across the pavement. He could see a woman in the shop window keeping a lookout and he smiled encouragingly in her direction. Sparkling white teeth in an ebony face returned his smile.

  By Sod’s Law the traffic lights turned against Ralph as soon as he reached the crossing, halting him at the kerbside. Just then, strains of music floated towards him, growing louder by the second. Round the square came a column of vehicles led by a van topped by loudspeakers. Rule Britannia made Ralph think of the last night of the Proms, though he wondered why it was being played in a county town in the middle of the morning. The answer was quickly revealed when he spotted the red, white and blue placards covering the van. As it passed, he saw the slogan in bold letters: Put Britain First!

  The pelican lights were changing, and only the first two vehicles in the procession made it through. The remainder showed dutiful respect for the law of the land and braked to a halt. The first car at the line also bore loudspeakers, and the front passenger took the opportunity to switch on the microphone and chant his message.

  This is Garth Brandon, your Britain First candidate. The BFP is the only party that puts Britain in the driving seat. No more control from Brussels. Vote Brandon on polling day. Put Britain first!

  Scowling, Ralph was distracted by the BFP convoy but gathered himself together and hurried across the road. He was met on the pavement by the woman from the charity shop who came out to meet him, a matronly West Indian with a sunny disposition. At that moment her expression was troubled, though she forced a complicitous smile before retreating into the shop with the box of leaflets.

  Ralph turned back towards the crossing and, exactly on cue, the lights turned against him. Brandon’s car began pulling away. The candidate stared at the shop and its summer scheme notices, glared at the woman clutching the box she had taken from Ralph. For an instant Brandon swivelled his head and looked straight at Ralph. Their eyes locked momentarily, and the car was past.

  *

  “I’d like to get this point quite clear.” Murfitt sat forward in his chair. The three inquisitors were ranged together on one side of the committee table with a clerk taking notes beside them and Serena alone on the other. “You have arranged for additional outings over and above the ones agreed in the original programme that you put to the Youth Service Committee in March, without reference to any other member of –”

  “All right, thank you, Lee. We get the point.” Frobisher inclined his head towards Serena. “You’re obviously worried about the situation this summer, Mrs McDowell, Serena. And that has led you to expand the number of trips to be taken by the children. What has caused this extra anxiety on your part?”

  “You mean apart from the fire-bombing of the community centre … twice, the second time with loss of life, the violent acts of vandalism and destruction going on all over the region, the racist campaign led by one of the candidates in the European Parliament election and the personal threats that some members of our community have received?”

  Frobisher pulled a pipe out of his top pocket, plugged it into his mouth and fingered the bowl thoughtfully. “I take that as a rhetorical question but, just for the record, would you like to tell us if there is more?”

  Serena looked from one to the other, speaking slowly and clearly. “Word has reached us from reliable sources that a neo-Nazi organisation is planning to make trouble here during the holidays. They’ll probably try to stir up the local non-white population to provoke young people into retaliating. If we can get the kids away as much as possible, it will help prevent that happening.”

  “And enable children of all races to spend time together doing pleasurable things,” added Councillor Mrs Rawlings.

  “Exactly. That, more than anything else, is what we’re setting out to achieve.”

  “That’s why we voted in committee to approve the plan.”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “But the fact remains that the extra outings will add a great deal to the cost,” Murfitt interjected. “And it will come from a budget heading for which I am responsible.”

  “How would you reply to that, Serena?” Frobisher waved his pipe vaguely. “Have you calculated the effect? Do you have all the figures?”

  “We’re within the target.”

  Murfitt was shaking his head.

  “And you have a sufficient number of helpers to comply with the adult-to-child regulations?” said Frobisher.

  “More than sufficient. The whole community is supporting this project. We have parents, child-minders, teachers – at least one head teacher – youth workers, business people giving up their time –”

  “That’s very impressive,” said Mrs Rawlings. “And you say they come from all sections of the …”

  Serena smiled. “I can see you want the answer in black and white. Yes, all sections of the community, white, black and Asian.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Talking of black and white …” Murfitt was looking desperate. “Can we talk hard figures, please? Can you guarantee – unequivocally – that your extra activities will not cause my budget to be exceeded?”

  Serena looked him in the eyes. “Can you guarantee – unequivocally – that you will take personal responsibility for the consequences if the summer scheme is curtailed and the streets run with … what was the famous phrase … rivers of blood?”

  She looked pointedly towards the clerk taking notes in short-hand. “I hope you got that down.”

  *

  Marnie asked Anne to call Estelle over towards the end of the morning. Her phone conversations about the supply of materials in Italy had raised some doubts in her mind that she wanted to talk through. Needing to stretch her legs, Anne walked out into the yard and shouted up to Estelle’s window. Two minutes later Estelle duly appeared clutching her files and drawings. The three of them settled round Marnie’s desk and spent half an hour studying colour charts.

  Marnie leaned back from the desk. “That’s the first thing you have to do when you arrive, check the builders’ merchants and find out if locally they have exactly the colours that you specify.”

  Estelle was nodding. “Of course. Maybe I’ve tried to have everything too perfect too early in the design process.”

  “I suggest you get onto the clients and find out if they have friends and neighbours in the area who’ve had their houses renovated. That should give you an idea of how –”

  Ralph burst in as they were speaking. “Have you got a radio in here?”

  “On my desk,” said Anne.

  “Local radio’s doing a programme on the election. They’re just on Creswell-Davies.”

  Anne was on her feet pursuing Ralph across the room. “Button five is the local Beeb.”

  Ralph’s technical skills were legendary. He stood aside to let Anne switch on and find the station. They waited while the presenter rounded off the report on the Tory candidate.

  … seems to be fighting a low-key campaign compared with his other main rivals. This is in marked contrast to his challenger and former party colleague Garth Brandon whose campaign is sweeping the county from top to bottom. Astonishingly, our latest poll reveals that of all the candidates Brandon scores highest for name recognition and knowledge of his policies. His campaign is not so much whistle-stop as whirlwind. We caught up with him a short while ago in Northampton.

  Where will you be campaigning tomorrow, Mr Brandon?

  Everywhere. We’re carrying our message of hope to the four corners of this beautiful county in the heart of England.

  How do you reply to those who criticise you for being supported by far-right extremist groups? People say you have the backing of an army of thugs and hooligans.

  Propaganda. I welc
ome followers from every side. No-one can accuse me or my party of any illegal activities. The whole point is that we support British tradition and British institutions. We put Britain first.

  And you have no links with New Force or any similar militant organisations?

  Why should I need them? I am an experienced politician, a former government minister. We are developing a new party to serve this country. You should be asking my rivals about their links with mysterious foreign backers.

  Do you have evidence of any such links?

  I want to focus on the real issues in my campaign, but I will just say this. Only this morning I discovered that my rivals are being supported by activists who operate in the shadows, part of a European Zionist clique desperate to unsettle our country and put us in the hands of continental bankers and financiers.

  What evidence do you have of this?

  My own eyes. I now know, for example, that Professor Lombard the economist, who recently gave up his post at Oxford to pursue new directions, is personally involved behind the scenes in this election.

  And you believe he’s part of this ‘European Zionist clique’?

  Well, his name’s something of a give-away, don’t you think? Lots of bankers came here from Italy years ago to escape investigation of their activities. That was a problem then; it’s still a problem now. Sooner or later people will listen to me and believe what I say. I hope they do so sooner rather than later for their own sake, and ours.

  That was the last in our reports on the candidates from the main parties. The election is also being contested by the Socialist Workers’ Party, the Monster Raving Loony Party, the Curved Bananas Alliance …

  Anne switched off.

  Marnie was exasperated. “Main parties? I don’t believe it! I’d sooner support the curved bananas brigade.”

  “Huh!” Anne smirked. “They’re round the bend.”

  Marnie stuck out her tongue. “Seriously, though. What’s he talking about? How did you come into this, Ralph?”

  “He spotted me delivering the leaflets this morning.”

  “He knew you were helping us?”

  “He knew all right. It wasn’t hard to work it out.”

  “And he recognised you?”

  “We were students at the same college in Oxford, both doing PPE. Then I was adviser to a sub-committee when he was a junior minister, and so on.”

  “The price of fame,” said Estelle. “But what was that about European and Zionist? Did your family come from Italy?”

  Ralph shrugged. “Lombard, Lombardy. Who knows? The Lombards have certainly lived in the London area for generations.”

  “And Jewish?”

  “Not as far as I know. But I’ve never really been into genealogy.”

  “So how can he prove what he says?”

  “He doesn’t have to. He just has to hint, make his point and then say he wants to get back to the real issues. It’s an old trick.”

  “And he makes you seem really sinister, lurking in the shadows to undermine the pure English race.”

  Ralph smiled. “Personified by famous English people like Laurence Olivier – is the name Norman or Huguenot? – John Betjeman – is that Dutch or Flemish? – Viscount Montgomery – would that be Norman or Welsh? And don’t mention Benjamin Disraeli – hardly a native Briton, unless Jerusalem really was among those dark Satanic mills! – and he was a favourite of Queen Victoria!”

  “Didn’t I read that she spoke English with a German accent in her youth?” said Estelle.

  “Let’s not start on the Royal family.” Ralph raised his hands. “There hasn’t been an English king since Harold died in 1066.”

  “So it’s all irrelevant,” said Marnie.

  Ralph flopped into a chair. “It only matters if Brandon can use it to further his twisted cause.”

  They all sat gloomily in silence.

  “I suppose that makes the Women’s Institute part of a subversive Zionist conspiracy,” Anne observed quietly. “Isn’t Jerusalem their anthem?”

  *

  The clerk paused in her note-taking. Frobisher and Mrs Rawlings were conferring in murmured tones, heads together. Murfitt was looking down at his notes, avoiding eye-contact with Serena, who was waiting demurely, hands resting in her lap, ankles crossed under the chair. Frobisher was the first to speak.

  “We need to be clear about where we’re going with the summer scheme, what our options are. You’ve done a great job in organising everything so far, Serena. We understand your concerns, but they are largely based on rumours of trouble. And rumours are usually unreliable. Perhaps the programme in its original form would be enough to meet everyone’s requirements without running the risk of going over-budget.”

  “The chief education officer said we must sometimes be prepared to take risks,” Serena observed quietly.

  “Well …” Frobisher steepled his long fingers and rested his elbows on the table.

  “But nobody really takes risks in local government, do they?” She flickered a smile.

  “We have to be realistic, Serena. And we have to try to work within what we’re given. Presumably you’d agree that your approved programme is a good one?”

  Serena nodded. “Of course.”

  Councillor Mrs Rawlings joined in. “Perhaps it would be best to try to run it in its original form and review the situation as it progresses. That would seem sensible, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.” Serena spoke quietly and reasonably. “I could take the necessary steps to do that, if you didn’t mind facing the consequences.”

  “Consequences?” said Frobisher. “And what do you mean by necessary steps?”

  “Oh, just the administrative procedures to change back to the original programme of activities.”

  Mrs Rawlings looked reassured. Frobisher’s eyes narrowed. Murfitt looked up slowly. Serena continued.

  “I’ll put out a statement that the programme’s being cut back. I’ll just have to say that it’s to save money. Journalists are bound to ask. Better to be up front about it.”

  “Journalists?” said Frobisher. “I don’t think they need to be involved. You can just send out a leaflet to parents.”

  “Oh, but journalists are involved anyway. You see, they’re pressing me for an interview … about my death threat.”

  “Your death threat?”

  Frobisher was aghast. Mrs Rawlings raised a hand to her mouth.

  “You didn’t tell me, as your line manager,” Murfitt began, but was silenced by a gesture from Frobisher.

  Serena was crestfallen. “It’ll look bad for the summer scheme. They’ll be making connections between the authority reducing its support at the time when my life’s being threatened. The whole thing could become a fiasco faced with such bad publicity.”

  *

  It would not be the first time that someone had been inspired by the hymn, Jerusalem. In Marnie’s case inspiration took the form of a rapidly-conceived plan. They would mobilise key organisations in support of the summer scheme. As so often in the past, it had been a comment from Anne that had cleared her thinking and pushed her into action. Hastily concluding the meeting with Estelle, they had brainstormed to compile a list of institutions that made up the backbone of Britain.

  Formidable battalions would be urged to fight back against Brandon and his cronies, including the Women’s Institute, the Scout Movement, the Townswomen’s Guild, the WRVS. Anne had suggested that the latter’s Meals-on-Wheels branch might be recruited as a form of flying column, pulling down posters around the county when on their delivery rounds. Ralph urged caution in trying to get these ‘respectable’ bodies too overtly politically engaged.

  Anne armed herself with the phonebook. As a trial run she called the county federation of the W.I., obtained the number of the local organiser and passed it over to Marnie like ammunition.

  “This looks familiar somehow,” Marnie muttered as she pressed the buttons on her phone. The call was picked up at the third ring.

/>   “Dorothy Vane-Henderson.”

  “Oh, it’s you.” Marnie immediately felt foolish. She should not have been surprised.

  “Dorothy Vane-Henderson speaking. Who is this?” The voice was courteous but wary.

  “Sorry, er, it’s Marnie. I want to talk to you about the W.I.”

  “We’d love to have you as a member, Marnie. I’ve often thought about mentioning it, but I assumed you’d be too –”

  “No, sorry. Look, let me explain.”

  “That would be nice.” The voice embodied lilac knitwear and low-heeled shoes by Russell and Bromley.

  Marnie outlined the situation with the BFP, the threats of violence, inter-community tension and the problems confronting the summer scheme.

  “So that’s what we’re up against. Can the W.I. help us fight Brandon? We need all the allies we can muster.”

  “No can do, I’m afraid, Marnie. Our constitution doesn’t permit us to do anything political. We’re meant to be above – er, outside – all that.”

  “So there’s nothing you can do?” Marnie felt her plan falling to pieces.

  “I didn’t say that exactly.” She went into brisk committee-woman mode. “I need to give it some thought. Leave it with me, Marnie. I’ll get back to you.”

  *

  Ralph’s plan back-fired. At the end of the afternoon the three of them went over to Estelle’s house to watch the local TV news. The first inkling of how badly things were going was the result of the latest polls. Brandon was top of the list for name recognition for the second day running. In fact, his was the only candidate’s name that some respondents could cite.

  When the news reporter went out onto the streets, everything went downhill. This time there was no Huw Parry-Thomas figure to steal the show. In a vox-pops presentation edited to maintain objectivity, half the people featured spoke in favour of a live-and-let-live attitude to ‘immigrants’. The other half thought Brandon had a point. Perhaps we did need to look after our own interests. More than one interviewee stressed that he was proud to be British. The report gave the impression of an uncertain nation at odds with itself.