Purple People

by Kate Bulpitt

  ‘Yes, my love.’

  Womble steered Eve through to the kitchen. There, she noticed some familiar faces peering towards her. Womble’s favourite band, straight-faced Swedes, The Svengalis, framed, and hanging a little wonkily on the wall.

  ‘Wow,’ she said, stepping towards them. ‘That takes me back…’

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ said Helena.

  ‘My boys,’ said Womble, wistfully.

  Eve gazed at the poster, raising a hand to her mouth, covering a yawn.

  ‘You must be exhausted after your flight, and the hospital,’ said Helena. ‘Why don’t you go and get ready for bed. I’ll bet you’ve barely eaten, have you?’

  ‘I had a weird thing from the hospital café.’

  ‘I’ll bring you up a sandwich, but we can chat tomorrow. And in case you wake up early, and are in the mood for something fluffier than all those hysterical newspapers, there’s a stack of magazines for you in the spare room,’ said Helena.

  ‘Send yourself to sleep with pictures of skirts and eyeshadows,’ said Womble. ‘I do it all the time.’

  As she lay in bed, Eve sighed appreciatively, stretching, luxuriating at finally being fully horizontal. Her flight seemed so long ago, New York so far away. She thought of Luke, laid stiffly in a morgue somewhere, and her dad, knocked out, in his hospital bed. When would he start to recover – if he recovered? The news was a great distraction from that worry, but what could she do to investigate the Purpleness while sitting at his side, waiting? What could Luke have told her, if they’d had a chance to speak? It was far-fetched (though given what had already happened, little could now be that fantastical), but following the police officer’s impression of Luke as a less sensitive soul, was it possible that perhaps he hadn’t killed himself ­– was there a more sinister possibility? It was something to consider. Maybe Womble’s friend, science teacher Bunsen Burner Bob, would have some ideas. I must prepare a list of questions, she thought, but nodded off before she could think of any, the duvet rising and falling gently as she quietly snored.

  *

  The neon numbers of the clock radio declared it to be 6:04. Eve had tried to get back to sleep, but it was no use. She yawned. Ordinarily she would joke about being able to reach hibernation levels of shut-eye, which reminded her of a popular Say Fantastique! story about a girl in Blackpool called Susan who’d slept for two months, waking for only a couple of hours every few days. The newspapers had called her a variety of things: Sleeping Beauty, Snoozy Susie, and Eve’s favourite, captioning a photo, ‘Susan: Well Rested’.

  Picking up the pile of magazines that Helena had put out for her, Eve padded downstairs. The dogs heard and followed her, tails wagging as she let them into the garden. While the kettle boiled for tea, Eve rang the hospital.

  ‘ICU.’

  ‘Morning, this is Eve Baxter, I just wanted to see how my dad is.’

  ‘Hello, Miss Baxter. There’s no change, I’m afraid. Your mum is still with him.’

  ‘Ah, okay.’ It had been nearly two days now. Was this a bad sign?

  ‘I think there was a message for you.’

  ‘From my mum?’

  ‘No, a man called. Nurse Attride took the details…’ There was a rustling of paper as this nurse searched for the message. ‘I’m so sorry, I can’t find it, but I’ll ask her to call when she comes on shift, if that’s okay?’

  ‘Great, thanks. Do you know what time she’ll be there?’

  ‘She’s due on at eight.’

  Surely the only person the message could be from was a relative of sadly (or perhaps not so sadly) lost lavender lad, Luke?

  Eve looked at the kitchen clock; there would be a couple of hours to wait before she found out.

  The kettle reached its crescendo, steam rising towards The Svengalis, as though the band were, not inappropriately, shrouded in dry ice.

  Poking from behind the poster, Eve noticed an old photo of herself with Womble and Helena; it tipped into view at an angle, a blob of Blu-Tack holding it in place. The three of them were beaming, drinks in hand. They looked so young, Eve thought. The tinsel surrounding them showed it was taken close to Christmas. It might even have been the party where they’d first encountered Magnus (oh, Magnus… Though these days, she tried not to think about him too much).

  Eve had met Womble, and later Helena, at university. Back then Womble was known predominantly for his preoccupation with tidying and recycling (hence the nickname) and his passion for The Svengalis. He was one of the typical music-obsessed boys found at college – the kind who headed straight to the nearest record emporium when their grant cheque came through, and got excited about bands that no one else had heard of appearing at the student union. The type whose method of breaking the ice, throughout freshers’ week, was to invite everyone back to their room in halls, and get the assembled chatting, beers in hands, accompanied by the soundtrack of their host’s pet LP. Womble had adorned the wall of their student kitchen with a Svengalis poster, and the band would gaze down with their haphazard Scandinavian cool, watching as F Block’s students ate toast and kebabs late into the night and in the morning stole someone else’s cornflakes.

  Womble looked as though he himself could have been a Svengali. Half-Danish, lanky and fair-haired, with a healthy, get up and glow complexion. Eve always found him good-natured and fun to be around, with a serious side that presented itself at the most appropriate moments; he had a canny knack of being there at the right time with the right words of wisdom. They’d bonded in halls in the first year, and subsequently shared a house with Helena and Womble’s friend Doug.

  Eve and Helena had met during their second term. While sitting in the college canteen one lunchtime, quietly reading, Eve had been approached by a pair of charmless, over-friendly lads who interpreted polite disinclination to chat as a sporting challenge. Minutes ticked by in which she failed to get shot of them. Then she noticed a girl at a neighbouring table rising up and stalking over; this was Helena. Eve had been awed by this girl’s striking, nonchalant elegance, which was part bohemian, part glam rock: a stripy, woolly dress, huge tartan scarf, plus clumpy boots and a halo of an afro. Both the latter added to her height – though she was a couple of inches shorter than Eve, her stature felt far greater.

  As Helena reached the table, the lads turned towards her, assuming they had a new target for their cockiness.

  ‘Alright, dar—’

  Helena had stood unassumingly, first acknowledging Eve with a small nod, then turning to briefly consider the boys with a look which was at once disapproving and disinterested. The boys visibly wilted, shoulders slumping into their plastic bucket seats.

  Returning her attention to Eve, Helena had said, ‘There you are,’ adding, in a tone that declared she knew the answer, ‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

  Eve shook her head.

  To the boys, Helena said politely, ‘Don’t let us keep you.’

  With punctured bravado and not enough wit to respond, they sloped off.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Eve. ‘That was impressive. So withering. Do you have magical powers?’

  ‘If you’d grown up with my mother, you’d also have perfected deadly disapproval,’ Helena said, with a laugh.

  ‘Can I get you an appreciative drink?’

  ‘Sure. Fancy something stronger than a Kia-Ora?’ said Helena, as they redirected themselves to the student union bar.

  They were a complementary match, each eminently sensible, in their own ways: Eve the daydreaming optimist, Helena cheerfully pragmatic. As they sipped their final drinks on a night out, Eve would abracadabra a scribbled schedule of last buses and trains, while Helena would have squirrelled away cash for an emergency cab, remembering the times they’d run for an infrequent night bus, or stood waiting for one, eating soggy chips in the rain.

  When Eve and Womble decided to find a house-share, she invited Helena to join them. The unexpected development of a simmering sexual tension between Womble and Helena provided
many hours of discussion and entertainment, like the teasing will-they, won’t-they relationship in a television show. So when Eve suspected her own lurking attraction to Doug, it didn’t seem sensible to indulge it – with the already present lustings, added to all their newly acquired junk and economy boxes of teabags, there just wasn’t room in the house for any more romantic drama. Her regrets in both current affairs and romantic ones were still to come.

  *

  Sitting with a mug of tea and a plate of jam-smothered toast, Sven and Mr Bailey at her feet awaiting any crumbs that might fall their way, Eve reached towards the pile of magazines. The cover of one featured a blonde, bland model with frosted pink lips and offered ‘New Ways to Keep Fit – Tips From Those Who Know’, ‘Fashion Update: Stripe Yourself Slim’, ‘Art Attack – Unleash Your Creative Self’, and her favourite, ‘Gloss Eyed: Creme Shadows that Stay Put’. Eve didn’t think this looked like Helena’s kind of thing at all, then noticed that it was a complimentary copy sent to the veterinary surgery where she worked. Eve turned to the next one. ‘Ms Anarchy – What Our Favourite Rebels Are Doing Now’, ‘Same Old Style? – How to Push Your Fashion Boundaries’, ‘Did Your Nan Tan? Bronzing Through the Decades’, and ‘Thinking Woman’s Crumpet? We Meet Theo Fletcher’. Eve immediately turned the page.

  It’s been almost two years since Theo Fletcher moved into Number Ten, and unlike many of his predecessors, the PM’s popularity is consistently rising. There’s no end in sight for this honeymoon period, either. Polls show that if there were an election tomorrow, he’d lead his party to victory with 40 per cent of the vote – and even those who support opposition parties would swing for him! But it’s not just at the ballot box that he’s winning. It seems when it comes to Britain’s broads, Theodore William Fletcher can do no wrong. So we were thrilled to get an audience with the prime minister, aka Britain’s most eligible bachelor.

  Fletcher grew up in Wigan, the youngest of three siblings (his older brother, Edmund, is an engineer, like their father; his sister, Isabelle, is a lawyer), all of whom received scholarships to the grammar school where their mother taught English. Theo was popular, and combined being outgoing and sporty with his academic pursuits: he played football and chess, learnt the powers of persuasion in the school debating team, and claims he had his eye on Downing Street from a young age.

  ‘My parents were very politically engaged,’ he told us, ‘and would often say that you had to be involved in what was going on around you, that not having an opinion was simply not an option. You can imagine how thrilled they were when I was made captain of the debating society! Though I was just as pleased because I really liked a girl on the team and it gave me an excuse to walk her home – under the guise of society business, of course!’

  After studying economics and history at university, during which time he took a gap year – that turned into two – as a volunteer at a disaster relief agency, he joined a humanitarian aid organisation based in Frankfurt. Having proved himself as an analyst there (‘probably not the part of my life you’re most keen to talk to me about,’ he rightly observes!), he returned home to immerse himself in the thick of UK politics. ‘I had to go and experience other things before throwing my hat into the ring,’ he says. ‘It was important to me that I learned something other than this, that I reminded myself why politics is important – or should be important – to us all.’

  His popularity was cemented further six months ago when his friendship with 11-year-old Londoner, Jermaine, whose father was killed on his way to work in an unprovoked attack, was revealed (this had been kept private and was only made public following a leak by a parent of another pupil at Jermaine’s school). They bonded at a fundraising event for families who’d lost loved ones to crime, and Theo has subsequently been spending time with the youngster, attending his school football matches, and frequently visiting him and his mum, Jacky. In a rare comment about their friendship, Theo said, ‘No one can replace Jermaine’s dad, and that’s not something I’m in any way trying to do. But we’ve both lost someone we love, and aside from being rewarding and a lot of fun, spending time with Jermaine and Jacky has been as much of a support to me as I hope I’ve been – and will continue to be – to them.’

  Single since his fiancée, Laura, was killed nine years ago – one of six victims in a horrific car crash caused when vandals threw a concrete bollard from a bridge above a motorway – he’s been quoted as saying he strives to do well in Laura’s honour, and that he’s not looking for romance while in office, instead being ‘dedicated to one commitment: serving the people of this country’. With increased funding of both the NHS and a partly re-nationalised railway (those of you who commute will no doubt agree that rail travel satisfaction is at an all-time high), he’s certainly keeping his election promises, and says next on his agenda is tackling crime and anti-social behaviour. ‘I really believe that gaining some control of that will have a huge impact on the quality of people’s lives; it just can’t be underestimated,’ he says. ‘I’m not afraid of taking a big, seemingly insurmountable problem, and wrestling with it – and I always plan to win.’

  Want to know what else he told us? Of course you do…

  *

  MW: Prime Minister, thank you so much for talking to us.

  TF: My pleasure. My sister would have had words with me if I hadn’t!

  MW: You’ve already been in office for two years now. How has it been for you?

  TF: Incredible. It’s like climbing a mountain – you’ve a huge, pretty daunting, task ahead, but the sense of achievement when you make progress, when you can look out and see how far you’ve come, is beyond description. You breathe in the mountain air, and think: anything is possible. I can do this – or rather, we can do this.

  MW: You’ve already got some major achievements to your name in that time. Which are you the most proud of, and what do you hope will be your next great accomplishment?

  TW: Obviously there are things which I think everyone is pretty thrilled about – our support for the National Health Service, and public transport, and untangling the disgraceful privatisation of both those services. But on a personal level, I think providing an accessible childcare network is something that is going to be a massive help to a lot of families, and make something which was a large financial burden, and a hindrance to many mothers being able to return to work, easier and more bearable. I think my late fiancée, Laura, is smiling down on me somewhere for that. As to next steps: education, and crime control.

  MW: Do you think the way in which you lost Laura will affect your approach to crime?

  TF: Of course I’ve thought a lot about this, and I have to say I don’t think it will. What it does give me is a complete understanding of what victims of crime go through, and also a desire to have an entirely robust justice system. But then – and this has been said by many people, many times – it’s just as important to tackle the issues which lead to crime as much as the crimes themselves.

  MW: It’s often said that your approach is the polar opposite of your predecessor, the late Milton Hardy. What would you say about that?

  TF: Milton was a great man, and a great statesman. We were of such different generations – he was older than my father – that of course we would have incredibly different approaches and outlooks. He definitely brought warmth and a more traditional, even comforting, style with his leadership. With such a successful career in education, so many years spent encouraging young people and showing them the way, being part of communities, he really understood what people want from those in power – from life – and he led this country in a wise, humane way. Some might say he could be old-fashioned, but I think at that time, with various problems this country faced—

  MW: Do you mean, for example, the privatised police force, which he inherited?

  TF: Absolutely. That, and other issues, along with the incredible speed at which technology was changing – or attempting to change – the way we live, he handled very deftly, always makin
g decisions in the way he thought would benefit the people of this country. If you look at some of those decisions – the restriction of certain technologies, including many computer games, and opting to reinstate Commerce-Free Sundays – you can see how, in comparison to developments in some other countries, we’ve reclaimed aspects of our society and communities that might otherwise have been lost.

  MW: You’re frequently credited with – like Milton – being one of a dwindling number of politicians whom people consider to be really genuine, and in whom they’re happy to put their faith. Why do you think that is?

  TF: Ah, well… It’s hugely flattering if people feel that way, of course. I’m here to serve the people of this country, and if anyone puts their faith in me to do that, and believes I’m doing it with the best intentions, then hopefully I’m doing something right. My main motivation is people knowing they can count on me to work hard for them – relentlessly so – and make decisions which I feel will benefit us as a society.

  MW: You’re also a bit of a – dare we say it – heartthrob, often getting the sort of reaction usually reserved for film stars. What do you make of that?

  TF: [laughs, and also – calm yourselves, ladies – blushes] My friends rib me for it, of course. Mary, my housekeeper, thinks it’s hilarious, especially when she’s picking up the socks I leave all over the house, or sees me trying to cook. Good job I went into politics, by the way – I’d make an awful chef. But really, hopefully that means I’m likeable, and maybe that my passion – which it genuinely is – for doing the best I can in this position of immense responsibility, comes through.

  MW: Can we ask how Jermaine is doing?

  TF: I’m afraid I don’t think it’s fair to discuss him. He deserves to be able to maintain his privacy, not to be thrust into the spotlight because of me. Sorry.

  MW: Finally, we hear there’s been the pitter patter of tiny feet at Number Ten – namely, a new puppy! How’s he getting on?