by Fay Keenan
‘I’m happy to hear that,’ Holly answered. ‘After all, everyone’s sick of politicians who have their own self-interest at heart. If you do mean what you say, it’ll be a relief.’ She wondered if this would be the right time to talk to Charlie about Rachel’s campaign to get the new drugs for Harry but decided to leave it for now. Rachel would raise it with him officially, in her own time.
‘So, can you give me your mum and dad’s address?’ Charlie was saying as Holly hurriedly zoned back into their conversation.
‘Sure, sorry,’ she said, giving herself a mental shake. She scribbled the details down on the block pad near the till. ‘Come round for about one o’clock.’
‘I look forward to it,’ Charlie smiled. ‘I’m not much of a cook, so I tend to make the wrong choices at the weekends. In London it’s a bit easier because of the canteen at work, but I really must get my act together.’
‘You make it sound a lot cosier and less exclusive than I bet it really is!’ Holly said wryly. ‘I’ve read Edwina Currie; I know the food’s great and there’s wine on tap.’
‘Not so much any more,’ Charlie countered. ‘At least, not for those of us who take the job seriously. Things have changed a bit since she wrote those novels.’
‘I’m sure,’ Holly’s tone was still teasing. ‘But that’s what you would say to a constituent.’ Aware that she was probably being a little too snippy for someone who was just, at this stage, a good acquaintance rather than a friend, she smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. I’m just used to doubting everything politicians say these days.’
‘I understand that,’ Charlie said quietly. He looked at her intently. ‘But I do mean it, Holly. I didn’t take this job for an easy ride, no matter how safe I was told the seat was. I want to make a difference here. And I really think I can, too.’
‘I hope so, Charlie,’ Holly said softly. ‘There’s a lot you can do here, in your position.’ She again dithered on whether to tell him about Harry, but thought better of it. There would be another occasion, she was sure of it.
His serious brown eyes were still locked on hers, and she found herself looking from them to his mouth and back again. God, he was attractive.
Suddenly awkwardly aware of their intensity, Holly shook her head and looked across to the door of the shop. ‘Well, I’d better lock up properly and barricade myself in upstairs with Arthur until one or other of us finds this mouse!’
Charlie took the hint. ‘Good luck with it. You’ll understand if I don’t offer to help.’
‘Sure,’ Holly laughed. ‘See you on Sunday.’
‘I look forward to it.’ Giving her another smile, during which Holly quite perceptibly felt her insides flutter, Charlie headed for the door. ‘See you soon.’
‘See you,’ Holly said, still rooted to the spot behind the counter. She watched him walk through the door and close it quietly behind him. Somewhere, buried deep within that man, was the teenager she’d met all those years ago. Holly was shocked at how much she wanted to find him again.
13
After another sound night’s sleep, albeit interspersed with the odd mouse-infested dream, Charlie woke to a full day of appointments at his constituency office. Tom was going to open up, as usual, and his new case worker, Helen Groves, was proving to be calm and efficient, and just what he needed as he was navigating the tricky waters of the issues of his constituents. Glancing at his diary as he grabbed a quick slice of toast and some coffee to take with him in his (not yet Instagrammed) travel mug, he was pleased to see he had a wide variety of people, and issues, to deal with that morning. Sooner or later, he knew he’d greet the information with a little more weariness, but for the moment he was pleased that so many people were seeking him out for help and advice. Working for his constituency was one of the main reasons he wanted this job, and so the more he could do while he was here, the better.
It was another lovely day in Willowbury as he walked down the path from his front door and onto the road that led to the High Street. He noticed that Fairbrothers was doing a roaring trade, as usual, and waved to Miles as he caught his eye through the bakery window. Jack, too, in his coffee shop, seemed to be trading briskly. The taxidermist on the corner of the High Street was polishing his front window, and Charlie found his gaze drawn to the sinister-looking stuffed crow on a tree branch that took pride of place. Every time he passed it, it seemed to have its beady eye on him, as if it was reminding him to behave himself. Years ago, when he was at school, he remembered the science department having a similar piece in its office, that some joker had made a miniature mortarboard for.
From the High Street, he could see the silhouette of Willowbury Hill a few miles further on, backlit by the sun and majestic in its dominant presence, even from this distance. Tourists flocked from miles around to climb the hill and experience the breathtaking views from the top. Willowbury also had its own ruined religious building, too – a priory that was destroyed during the Reformation, which was an increasing draw to tourists now the National Trust had acquired it.
Musing on this, he passed ComIncense, but clearly Holly hadn’t opened up yet as the shop front lights weren’t on. He glanced at his watch and realised it was only half past eight, and most of the shops that didn’t sell food and drink didn’t open until nine o’clock anyway. He tried not to imagine Holly padding around upstairs in her flat, perhaps making a coffee and going through her tasks for the day. An image flashed into his mind of Holly in a skimpy cotton nightgown, with her vivid red hair in a bed-tousled plait over one shoulder, the other fully revealed as a strap slipped down… He swallowed hard, chiding himself for letting his imagination get the better of him.
Letting himself into the office a few minutes later, he put his travel mug down on his desk and went through the diary for the day on his iPad. Tom had access to it, as did Helen, and both were proving adept at managing his constituency days beautifully. So long as he kept himself briefed on who was coming to visit, the logistics of the appointments were out of his hands. This suited Charlie perfectly as it allowed him to concentrate on the actual issues at hand.
Glancing down his list for the morning, he didn’t see anything too controversial or odd – a bit of noise pollution, a Rachel Jamieson coming in to discuss a health issue, and a meeting with the head of the local Chambers of Commerce about boosting tourism in the area. So far, so safe.
‘So if you could just see fit to have a word with him, I’d be ever so grateful,’ the little old lady in front of Charlie’s desk continued. ‘Only I don’t know how as I can go on like this with the blessed music blasting out night after night. My husband’s deaf, so it doesn’t bother him, but my hearing’s still as sharp as ever, and I really can’t get any sleep.’
Charlie felt a pang of sympathy for her. Mrs Garner lived in the middle of a row of local authority houses in Willowbury, which had a high turnover of tenants, except for her and her elderly husband, and the current tenants on one side were clearly being more than a little antisocial.
‘I’ll see what I can do, Mrs Garner,’ Charlie said. ‘But perhaps you’d be better off phoning the local council offices? They tend to deal with environmental health issues, rather than me in this office.’ This wasn’t the first Willowbury resident who’d come to him with matters better suited to the council, but Charlie was loath to turn them away out of hand. He relented a little. ‘Are you online at home at all? It’s quite easy to email them, too.’
Mrs Garner laughed. ‘You’re pulling my leg, love. It was hard enough getting my husband to use a push-button phone.’
‘Well, perhaps my assistant can email the council for you,’ Charlie said. He picked up his phone and spoke briefly to Helen, who occupied the front office. Smiling as he put the phone down, he turned back to his constituent. ‘Helen’s going to send them an email, and when they respond, we’ll drop you a line and let you know. Or you might get a letter from them.’
‘Thank you, my love,’ Mrs Garner’s rheumy eyes brimmed. ‘It
wouldn’t be so bad if my husband didn’t have dementia, but facing this on my own is a bit difficult these days.’
Charlie felt a lurch of sympathy. He could well imagine the trials of the woman in front of him. ‘Does your husband have a carer to come in at all?’ he asked gently. He knew he had another appointment in a few minutes, but he was reluctant to let Mrs Garner go just like that.
‘Oh, they come in, these lovely foreign girls, twice a day, but they don’t get paid enough, and they’re always so pushed for time,’ Mrs Garner sighed. ‘It’s not their fault, but it does mean long stretches where we’re on our own.’
‘I see.’ Charlie’s mind was whirling. ‘What about respite care? Is your husband eligible for that?’
‘He goes into the local nursing home for a couple of nights a month,’ Mrs Garner replied. ‘Which would help, but with the noise from next door, it doesn’t make a great deal of difference.’
‘I see.’ Charlie was determined now to try to help. He stood up from behind his desk and came round it to help Mrs Garner to her feet. ‘If we can help with the noise issue, I promise we will.’
‘Thank you so much,’ Mrs Garner smiled up at him. ‘Now I’d best be off. You’ve got other people to see, I’d imagine.’ She walked with a surprisingly brisk step to the door of the office.
‘Take care now,’ Charlie said as she left. He hoped he would be able to help her. It was the work of a few minutes, time-wise, but it might make a big difference to her. Walking back to his desk, he made a note in his diary to check on her case again in a week or two, and, if necessary, hassle the council himself.
When he looked up again, he saw a woman in his doorway. She was clutching a folder to her chest and looked a little nervous, but very familiar.
‘Hello,’ Charlie said, rising from his desk and holding out a hand. ‘I’m Charlie Thorpe. How can I help you?’
The woman smiled, and then it clicked.
‘Of course,’ Charlie said. ‘You’re Rachel, aren’t you? We, er, met last night at your sister’s place.’ Unsurprisingly, he’d been more concerned about getting his trousers back on than paying attention to the woman and child who’d appeared at that highly embarrassing moment in Holly’s home.
Rachel smiled, blushing slightly. ‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘So, what can I do for you?’ Charlie hadn’t made the connection when he’d seen Rachel’s name on his appointments list, but, of course, she had been married, so her name was different now to Holly’s.
‘It’s about my son, Harry,’ Rachel replied, still smiling. ‘You, er, met him last night, too.’ She took a seat in front of the desk.
Charlie made a mental note to get some comfortable chairs to put in the bay window of the room as he, sat back down behind his desk, although it felt a little formal. But then, he figured, given the position he was in when he’d met Rachel last night, perhaps a little formal distance was just what was needed.
‘How can I help?’ Charlie smiled, trying to forget that the last time Rachel had seen him, he’d been spreadeagled on top of her sister with his trousers round his ankles.
‘I don’t know if Holly’s told you about Harry’s condition, but he was born with cystic fibrosis.’ Rachel paused and shuffled the folder she’d brought in with her. ‘There’s a new generation of drugs coming from a large pharmaceutical company, but there’s a hold-up because the company can’t strike an agreement with the government to supply them on the NHS. So far, they’re in a stalemate.’ Rachel handed over some documentation to Charlie that outlined the issue in more detail. ‘I did speak to Mr Fitzgerald about it back when Harry was a baby, but he was unable, or unwilling, to progress the case, so it kind of stalled here, as well.’
Charlie ‘s heart went out to the woman sitting on the other side of the desk. He remembered seeing little Harry, first in Holly’s shop and then, he winced inwardly, when the loose mouse had caused such an embarrassing stir. The little boy looked just like any other child; who would have imagined that he had such a heartbreaking condition? He didn’t know a lot about cystic fibrosis, but his sense of responsibility to those in need in his constituency, as well as his own, very human emotions at Rachel’s revelation made him want to find out more. He scanned through the précis that Rachel had given him. On paper it all seemed clear enough, though, understandably, frustrating for Rachel and her family.
‘It’s a conflict because of the cost issue, I see,’ he murmured. It wasn’t an unfamiliar story; the NHS was stretched and often it was a question of economics. That in no way made decisions easier, but they had to be made, nonetheless.
‘That’s true, but there may be grounds for reassessment,’ Rachel said. ‘So far, there have been a couple of MPs who’ve got behind the campaign, but as the new MP here, I wondered if you might give it some thought, too.’
Charlie nodded. ‘Leave it with me. I’ll need to look into it, get some more facts and figures and find out exactly what’s involved, but I promise I’ll come back to you when I’ve had the chance to do a bit of homework.’ Charlie felt a tingle of excitement; the Ministry of Health was his ultimate aim, in a few years, and taking on Rachel and Harry’s case might be as useful for him politically as it was for them. That wasn’t as venal as it sounded; as one of his constituents, it was equally important to give them the attention and service they needed, too. Perhaps there was a way to help them both.
‘Thank you,’ Rachel said. ‘Being the parent of a child with CF feels like being on borrowed time.’
Charlie nodded. ‘I can’t imagine, but I can try to help.’
There was a pause, which seemed to signal the end of the formal part of the appointment.
Rachel stood up and Charlie went to hand her back the folder, but Rachel shook her head. ‘Keep it – I made copies for you for reference.’
‘Thanks.’ Charlie rose to his feet when Rachel did, and she grinned.
‘It’s good to see you with your trousers on this time.’
Charlie laughed out loud. ‘I have no idea what you must have thought.’
Rachel smiled wryly. ‘With Holly, I’ve learned not to read too much into anything – for all I know it could have been some kind of alternative therapy!’ She paused. ‘She did text me and say she and Arthur flushed out the mouse in the end, though, if that’s any comfort.’
‘I’d like to say it was,’ Charlie joined in the laughter, ‘but I’m still having flashbacks!’
‘Well, thank you for seeing me,’ Rachel said. ‘Holly’s been nagging me to make an official appointment with you since you moved in, but I’ve been so tied up with the campaigning, and Harry’s been on some new medication recently, that I haven’t had the chance. There have been a lot of demonstrations by the families of CF patients in your neck of the woods at Westminster lately. You’ve probably come across them. The campaign’s colour is yellow.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen one or two,’ Charlie acknowledged. ‘It always amazes me how well attended these things are, and how much support they have.’
‘We like to be vocal about it when we can,’ Rachel replied. ‘People with the condition themselves can’t be too close physically, because there’s a danger that they might make each other ill, so friends and families choose to campaign on their behalf.’
Charlie was shocked, and he felt his heart, again, go out to the woman opposite him. How incredibly isolating that must be for those with the condition, never able to interact with each other in person for fear of getting ill. ‘I can’t imagine how difficult that must be for you, and for Harry,’ he said. ‘If I can do anything to help, I will.’ He paused. ‘And do keep in touch if there’s anything else I should know. I want to help.’
‘Thank you,’ Rachel stood up. ‘It’s a step forward just to be here in this office; Hugo Fitzgerald used to send out a letter in response to me every so often, but that was about as far as it went.’
Charlie tried not to grimace. He’d been hearing far too much about the actions, or lack there
of, of the previous incumbent, and while respect for the dead and for the holder of the seat before him counted for some things, it was getting more and more difficult to remain diplomatic, the more he found out. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he assured Rachel.
Wandering to the door to escort her out a moment later, Charlie turned back to Helen when Rachel was gone.
‘Can you get all the info you can on the re-evaluation of the next generation of cystic fibrosis drugs and email anything useful you find?’ he said.
‘Sure thing, boss,’ answered Helen, coolly efficient as ever and already working through Charlie’s burgeoning pile of email and paper correspondence. ‘Do you want me to update the office Twitter feed as well? I’ve got the photos from your visit to Willowbury Primary last week that still need to go on.’
‘Yes, that would be great, thanks,’ Charlie replied. He tried to get a visit in to a school or other community concern as often as he could, both to raise his own profile and to shine a light on their achievements or needs, and he’d particularly enjoyed visiting the primary school; the children were so unguarded in their attitudes towards him, it made a refreshing change. He still couldn’t quite get used to being asked by five-year-olds if he had a girlfriend, but he’d definitely enjoyed seeing what schools were like since the last time he’d been at one himself.
He was also a keen Instagrammer and had already amassed nearly five thousand followers since his election to the Willowbury and Stavenham seat, but he still had yet to get to grips with Twitter, and relied on Helen, who was ten years younger, and far more in tune with social media, to handle that and the official Facebook pages. Social media had its advantages, and its disadvantages, as he knew from being one of the first students to adopt it at university. He was part of a generation that had some of their memories on actual, printed photographs and a lot more stored in the ethereal world of online and digital. Everything he did, now more than ever, would be under scrutiny. If he’d been more reckless in his university days, he felt sure he’d have been more concerned, but he was fairly certain there weren’t going to be any skeletons leaping out of closets at an inconvenient moment.