by Polly James
‘I’m sure what Andrew means is that perhaps we need to have better communication between this office and you guys,’ I say. ‘And that maybe there’s a training issue for new councillors, too?’
‘Rubbish,’ says Andrew, in a loud voice.
Jimmy Barton looks at him, then back at me. I think it takes a moment to work out that I am the target of that hostile statement – but then his expression softens, and he takes the olive branch I’ve offered him.
‘Well, Molly, girl,’ he says. ‘There might be a grain of truth in that. What d’you suggest we do?’
I’m so relieved to have averted any further conflict that I launch into a series of suggestions about what Greg and I could offer new councillors to help them find ways to manage their case loads. The councillors join in, and it’s all going really well until the discussion is interrupted by a snore. A really loud, stagy snore.
All heads turn to look at Andrew, who is sitting slumped in the corner of the sofa, wide-awake, and staring at me.
‘I think that’s enough, Molly,’ he says. ‘We don’t want to bore Jimmy and the others to death, do we, now?’
I am not going to let him make me cry. I am not. I never have, and I never will.
I excuse myself and leave the room. As I pass Greg, he tries to stop me to find out what’s wrong, but I just shake my head and keep on going. When I get outside, I stand around for a while, smoking and ordering myself to get a grip so I don’t give Andrew the satisfaction of knowing that he’s managed to upset me.
On the second cigarette, I finally start to calm down – but then there are noises in the lobby, and someone pushes open the main door a few feet from where I’m standing. Shit. They must all be leaving. And they’re going to walk right past me, when they do.
I move towards the door, but then I hear something.
‘Wasn’t that awful?’ says a familiar voice.
‘God, yes,’ says another. ‘That poor woman. He made her look a complete idiot. I’m bloody glad I don’t have to work for him.’
There’s nothing for it, but to face them anyway. I’ll have to do it some time, after all.
I take hold of the door and say, ‘Excuse me’ to Jimmy, who looks startled, but then moves out of my way. The other councillors turn towards me, and smile rather too sympathetically – like those hushed-voice types who always annoy me so much when I encounter them at meetings of the Mental Health Trust.
‘Good to talk to you all,’ I say, as I walk away. ‘Look forward to seeing you at Joan’s barbecue.’
Then I go back to work. It is a very good thing that The Boss is still not speaking to me, as I am now not speaking to him.
I bet this isn’t how International Directors of Global Oil Companies treat their staff – and they probably speak to their wives, as well. Thursday week can’t come soon enough.
SATURDAY, 28 AUGUST
Connie and the other interns have found a house and are moving in this weekend – so it’s back to testosterone hell for me. Once she’s gone, I shall again be the only woman in the house. No doubt this will cause a dramatic increase in facial hair, and I shall soon be fairground material.
In the meantime, Max and I have been nominated to ‘help’ Connie with the move, so now we’re having to talk to each other, like it or not.
Josh has escaped being drafted in, partly due to his arm injury – the one that he’s still milking for all it’s worth – and partly because he’s gone off to the coast with the boys, to stay at the beach house belonging to Robbie’s parents.
I had no idea they were so well off. Imagine owning a beach house, for goodness’ sake! Maybe Max and I could have arranged to borrow that. Then we could have gone there this weekend, instead of running around like maniacs, trying to fit what seems to be enough stuff to equip three houses into one smallish car.
Connie must be the world’s most useless packer, too. She persuaded Max to pick up loads of boxes from the supermarket yesterday, but God knows why he bothered – she only seems to have used about ten of them, into which she’s packed the most random selection of stuff I’ve ever seen. There’s half a ton of make-up loosely scattered inside saucepans and bowls, and her pot plants have been nestled inside her jumpers. There’s soil everywhere.
If she’d taken her time, she might have made a better job of it, but she seemed incapable of any activity while Big Brother was on, and didn’t even start packing until about 11:00pm last night. The result is that the bulk of her belongings are in bags. Not bin bags – which would have been embarrassing enough – but carrier bags. Hundreds of the damned things. And Connie is even worse at unloading than she is at packing.
When we get to the new house she stands next to the car, ‘directing’ us – until Max notices, and suggests she might like to join in when she’s ready. She scowls as if this is unfair, so I start counting how many trips Max and I make to and from the house – but give up fairly quickly when I run out of energy. Why is it always impossible to park anywhere near a student house on moving-in day? (Well, actually, I know the answer to this – it’s because no student can ever get it together to obtain a parking permit in time for their poor parents to be able to use it – once they’re been conned into helping their child move in. Or Connied, in this particular instance.)
Our precious little con-merchant carries only two carrier bags on each of the very few trips she makes. I have seen far more dynamic slugs. Then she takes a bag of food into the kitchen, and that’s the last we see of her – though we’re so busy that we don’t miss her for about an hour, at which point we find her sitting at the kitchen table with the other interns, all having a really good chat.
It’s almost 8:00pm by now – and the car is still full of stuff.
When I mention this, Connie says that she and the others think it would be nice to go for a drink ‘to get to know each other’. She asks Max to lock up when we’ve finished unloading, and to post her keys through the door.
A brief hug and a kiss, and off she goes – before I’ve even started weeping. (I cry whenever we take Connie back, but she always stays resolutely dry-eyed. You’d think she’d at least pretend to be a bit sad, but she never does. She’s just ecstatic to escape from life with Josh; I suppose it’s not all that surprising.)
This is a nice house, though. I’m almost tempted to suggest Max leaves me here for a few days, but he might agree too readily – and, anyway, I shall be needed at home, to prevent Josh from turning Connie’s bedroom into a gym.
I overheard him and Robbie discussing that idea the other night. They were planning on calling it ‘Bonjour Better Body’ and charging admission. Josh said he’d already persuaded Greg to sign up.
SUNDAY, 29 AUGUST
Max and I are knackered when we finally get back from Connie’s. No sooner has Max said, ‘I am never moving Connie again’, than he falls asleep – though not for long.
The phone rings at 4:00am. It’s Robbie’s dad, John, who needs Max to join him in a rescue mission. Honestly, you couldn’t make it up.
It turns out that the much-hyped ‘beach house’ is a hut – where staying overnight is prohibited. Upon his return, Max explains what happened.
Apparently, Robbie, Josh and the others dug an enormous fire pit, which then got a bit out of control and eventually caught the attention of the guy who supervises the beach, as well as the car park.
‘This guy said he went to investigate and found all eight boys stacked up, one on top of the other,’ says Max. ‘In a tiny hut, fast asleep. He said he might have missed them, if their feet hadn’t all been sticking out of the door.’
The boys were ordered to leave, immediately, but were all too drunk to drive, hence the calls to the parental emergency service. The one from which you never get the option to resign.
Josh seems to have sobered up a bit by the time Max brings him home, although his relief at being rescued appears to be based solely on having escaped from Robbie’s snoring, which he says prevented him from get
ting any sleep.
‘Join the bloody club,’ says Max.
‘Well, it’s not my fault,’ says Josh. ‘I was still awake when the supervisor arrived, but I was stuck under Jim and Robbie, and couldn’t wriggle out. Otherwise, I’d have slept on the beach. Robbie’s snoring’s almost as bad as yours.’
‘I’d shut up about my snoring, if I were you,’ says Max. ‘I’m not really in the mood.’
‘Sorry, Dad – I’m just tired. It’s been a stressful night.’
‘Stressful? I think you ought to count your lucky stars I got rid of the supervisor before sunrise,’ says Max. ‘If he’d seen that giant sand phallus you lot built, you’d have been in even more trouble than you were already.’
Josh chokes with laughter, then yawns, and sets me off too.
‘So how big was this beach house?’ I ask Max. ‘I mean hut?’
‘About six foot by six foot,’ he says. ‘For Christ’s sake. Those boys all need their heads testing.’
‘Being so cramped made my broken arm a bit sore,’ says Josh – who never knows when to stop.
‘It’s not broken,’ says Max. ‘Or not yet, it isn’t. But it could be arranged if you ever pull any more stunts like this. I’m going back to bed.’
That sounds like a damned good idea to me so I follow suit – but we seem doomed not to get any sleep this weekend. As soon as we’ve both snuggled back down – temporarily united by despair at being the parents of an idiot – my mobile starts to beep. I can’t ignore it, not now that Connie’s no longer at home. It could be her: cue instant panic. Now what’s happened?
I blunder around looking for my glasses. It’s such a pain not being able to read texts without them. When I can finally see, I realise the text is from Dinah, not Connie – oh, the relief – although that’s only momentary.
Dinah’s message says, ‘Oh. My. God. Guess what the Thai bride’s name is?’
‘What is it now?’ says Max, his voice muffled by the pillow he’s pulled over his head.
‘Dinah,’ I say. ‘She wants us to guess the name of the Thai bride.’
‘Yung-Fuk,’ says Max, from the depths.
I text this suggestion to Dinah. ‘It’s a good guess, but it’s not right,’ she replies. ‘Was that one of Max’s? Try again.’
Who does she think she is? Roy Walker? ‘Dinah, I can’t be bothered to play Catchphrase. It’s the middle of the night. Just tell me what the Thai bride’s called!’
‘Porn!’ is her reply. ‘Though you probably don’t spell it exactly like that.’
Christ almighty. I’m in the middle of telling Max, when he lets out an enormous snore. I’ve had quite enough of that this week. In fact, I’ve had quite enough of this week, full stop.
MONDAY, 30 AUGUST
Oh, good grief. The world’s gone mad, or rather, Andrew has.
Today is Joan’s famous Bank Holiday Labour Party Barbecue – the one Andrew banned me and Greg from attending – so, of course, we fully intend to go.
Max comes too, as moral support, as I’m not looking forward to seeing all the local councillors again after Friday’s events, but I can’t wriggle out of going now. I’ve already promised Joan I will.
Her Party barbecue’s a tradition and, anyway, I like her and most of the Party staff, so I’m not going to let any of them down. They’re the ones who rescue me and Greg whenever a constituent goes berserk, too – so Andrew’s disapproval is a small price to pay to ensure continuing protection.
By the time Max and I arrive, it’s stopped raining, which seems a good omen and compensates for the embarrassment of being late. It’s my fault we are, because I kept changing my mind about what to wear. These events are always a sartorial challenge as there’s no accepted dress code whatsoever, not least because Lichford Labour Party has a class divide wider than Mr Franklin’s arse.
On the sunny side of Joan’s garden, there’s a conclave of most of the town and county councillors, together with those middle-class activists whose names crop up on every committee, from the Lichford Preservation Society to the Mental Health Trust. They’re all school governors, too, and have fingers – or rather relatives – in every local pie. Jimmy Barton is there with his wife, Peggy, and he smiles at me as I walk past.
On the other side, in the shade, sit the Party members who live on Lichford’s Council estates, or who are union reps, and who are therefore deemed to have their finger on the pulse of the core vote. Far fewer members of this group have managed to become councillors and, although those who have interact slightly more comfortably with the elite squad than do the rest, you can still sense the mutual distrust. And probably dislike.
Over the last few years, a third group’s been on the rise. These are the young, university-educated Party activists who stand by the drinks table, as their legs don’t tire as easily as everyone else’s.
They have an understanding of demographics and voting intentions that puts the rest of us to shame, and which form their only topic of conversation. I’m not sure how much real-life experience they bring to their policy analyses, but there’s no doubt their voices are becoming more influential – and their overt personal ambition scares the hell out of The Boss.
Despite knowing everyone, Greg and I usually spend these events on the periphery of any group we try to join – probably because we’re equally distrusted by all of them. Half think we’re snobs because we work for the MP, and the other half that we’re idiots who know nothing about politics at all. Poor old Max is treated as being even more irrelevant than Greg or I.
‘Molly! Max! Over here!’
It’s Greg, who is sitting in no-man’s land in the middle of the garden, with some of the regional Party staff, who I really like. Max and I join them and, after everyone’s eaten what probably represents Iceland’s entire stock of frozen beefburgers – consumed with varying degrees of enthusiasm – it’s time to play a game of cricket. Not poncy cricket, but Labour Party cricket, which normally turns into rounders pretty quickly.
‘Shame Andrew’s not here yet,’ says Jimmy Barton. ‘What with him being a cricket pro and all.’
He goes in to bat, leaving Greg and I trying to work out whether his tone was ironic or not.
‘Hmm,’ says Greg, which is a useful alternative to, ‘Ah.’ Then, ‘Holy shit!’
‘What?’ I say. ‘Have you been stung? There are a lot of wasps around—’
‘Ssh,’ says Greg, gesturing madly towards the hedge separating Joan’s garden from the street. ‘Look over there. Not now, you idiot! In a minute, and don’t let anyone else see what you’re looking at.’
I wait a few seconds and then look again towards the hedge – but I can’t see anything. I’ve forgotten to bring my distance glasses.
‘It’s Andrew,’ says Greg. ‘Hiding behind the hedge. What the hell’s he up to now?’
‘Spying,’ I suppose,’ says Max, giving me a meaningful look. ‘He doesn’t trust anyone, even when they’re innocent. Must be part of the job description, when you work in politics.’
I ignore him, and swig most of my glass of wine, while Greg tries to make his way closer to the hedge, unseen by all the other guests. This seems to involve first diving into a large rhododendron bush, then crawling out on its far side on his stomach and wriggling his way across the lawn.
Everyone is watching him by the time he stands up again, and peers over the top of the hedge.
‘Ah,’ says Andrew, popping up on the other side. ‘Hello, Gregory, um, everyone. Forgot Joan lived here. I’m just doing a bit of canvassing.’
‘Come in, Andrew,’ says Joan, saving his bacon. ‘You were invited, you know.’
I’m not sure how many people notice that he isn’t carrying any leaflets when he comes through the gate. Or spot the woman who’s walking away, with her back to us.
‘Who’s that?’ says Greg, in a very breathy hiss. The commando-style crawling has really taken it out of him.
‘God knows,’ I say. ‘I can’t see her fa
ce. Why?’
‘She was crouching down with Andrew behind the hedge when I caught them by surprise.’
‘Ask him,’ I say – but Andrew’s already moving away, making a beeline for the county councillors and the rest of the elite squad. Kissy, kissy, kissy. It’s horrible to watch. He’s still oblivious to the kissing-on-the-cheek protocol, too, though no one seems to object today.
Why do women like The Boss so much? They all start giggling, and pay him rapt attention while he holds forth about the merits of the personal touch when canvassing. Jimmy Barton seems less than pleased to see him, though, which is rather gratifying after Friday’s events.
‘Come on, Andrew – we’re in the middle of a game of cricket,’ he says. ‘You’re just in time to show us the old semi-pro in action!’
After Andrew is out for a duck, I’m sure I spot Jimmy smiling to himself. Greg revisits the rhododendron, to hide his expression. And the sound of hysterical laughter.
TUESDAY, 31 AUGUST
It’s incredible what you find lurking on the peripheries of people’s gardens when you’re least expecting it. And I am not going to feel guilty about Johnny any more. That should put an end to all the hiccups I’ve been having.
Tonight, Max is about to take the rubbish out, ready for tomorrow’s refuse collection, when – amazingly – Josh decides to be helpful and offers to do it instead. It is late and Max does look tired, but even so, I’m not used to Josh being considerate. Maybe he’s turned over a new leaf at last?
‘No, don’t worry, Josh, I’ll do it,’ says Max, looking a gift horse squarely in the mouth.
‘Max,’ I say. ‘Are you mad? Josh – Josh – is offering to do a household task – voluntarily – and you are turning him down?’
‘Well, he’ll probably fall over something in the dark,’ says Max. ‘And what with his arm, and everything …’
Josh is as contrary as the usual suspects. If you refuse him anything, even something he doesn’t want, it immediately becomes irresistible. He grabs the bin bag from Max’s hand and heads out of the back door. Max looks really annoyed for a minute and almost goes out after him, but then he just sits down heavily on the couch and starts doing a Sudoku puzzle instead.