by Trevor Veale
McPain’s voice was beginning to sound bored.
She swallowed hard. “Perhaps this coldness of his comes from a childhood empty of love… He’s not vicious or uncaring or unkind. He’s generous…it’s just that at times he shuts off completely.”
Then, with an effort, she added: “I’m immature, I know that. Silly and insecure.”
He yawned, as if he’d heard this a hundred times.
“He’s as self-divided as I am – he keeps his emotions under lock and key. Just like his parents…” She pulled back her thoughts with a start. “I don’t know if I should be doing this – dissecting his character behind his back.”
“Okay, let’s talk about something else.” He had a cutting edge to his voice, and she shuddered, knowing he was about to insult her.
“You hop on and off the scales like a demented kangaroo,” he said sourly. “You’re always obsessing about your weight.”
She winced. It was true, and she did it because she wanted to bring back the past. Her memory of the days when she was a young and slender student was fond and amusing. She made a mental note to push the scales behind the lavatory when she got back and never stand on them again.
“You enjoy bathing in people’s admiration,” he was saying. ”In public you like to milk the adulation of the crowd. Yet there’s your secret ritual – while your stomach growls in the daytime, you look forward to cramming your belly with candy and chucking up in the bathroom at night. Meanwhile, the man you married is cheating on you at every possible chance with the woman he really wanted to marry. It’s about time you got your own back by taking a lover, don’t you think?”
As he carried on talking, she suddenly felt cut off from him by a hysterical resistance to the anger she felt he was holding against her. It soaked through her like a bad period. She started to say goodbye.
“We’re not finished yet,” he said.
“Why are you so mean to me?” she retorted, gnawing her lip.
“All right, session over!” he grunted. “Same time next week.”
The abrupt way he always dismissed her still left her gasping. She hurtled out of the living room, and in a few minutes was lying on her bed, sobbing her heart out.
Dawna had composed herself and was sitting in the living room when the campaigners returned with Lepager, who’d arrived for a campaign meeting. They sat watching People’s Party commercials on a small TV set. The screen was filled with a Party ad in which a grim-looking woman in wire glasses lambasted the former monarchy for its opulence and corruption. “The royal family drank champagne from Lalique crystal and ate caviar while their poorest subjects drank rancid water and caught rats to keep themselves alive!” she declared.
“Well, these days we drink rancid water as well – it’s perfectly disgusting!” Godfrey said. Lepager laughed. “And out of paper cups too!”
“Thank God the average Mellorian doesn’t know about Lalique crystal, or he’d be really ticked!” Dawna quipped.
Godfrey groaned at the next ad, a Church Party broadcast showing scenes of his coronation, with dark-plumed horses pulling a golden coach, and a commentary from a plummy-voiced matron in a twin set and pearls. “The anger of the Mellorian people is justified,” she brayed, “since their traditional way of life has been taken away from them.” It couldn’t get any worse if it was a People’s Party spoof, Godfrey thought. The woman prattled on.
“Their country is in the hands of godless materialists, but – fear not – the good old days will return, days of real jobs for sensible wages, regular church attendance and a healthy respect for their elders on the part of the young, and sooner than you think! Just cast your vote for the Mellorian People’s Christian Democratic Party!”
There followed a flourish of trumpets and a quick glimpse of the Mellorian royal family, while the date of the election poll flashed on the screen.
“Saints preserve us if that’s the best we can do!” Godfrey said. “That was worse than something that Cathy might have produced – no wonder it got past the government censor.”
“That’s because it was made by the government,” Lepager said, his voice filled with frustration. “They won’t allow us to make our own party broadcasts –we were told it would be too expensive and take up vital studio space, which they need for their public information broadcasts!”
“What a lot of tommyrot!” Godfrey said quietly. “Is there anything we can do to have these wretched things stopped?”
“It’s better not to complain,” Lepager said. “The last time we did so, the government increased the number of their Church Party ads per hour and made them ten times worse. Even our supporters were saying we looked like a bunch of complete tossers!”
Godfrey wondered if this was the right time to ask Dawna to step outside with him for a walk in the garden. That way he could give her a little pep talk. Suddenly the archbishop’s cellphone chirped out Adeste Fideles and he pulled it off his belt and answered it. Godfrey smiled at Dawna, as they sat listening to Lepager’s excited voice, and let his mind drift. He realized that even if he won the election and was able to use his position to restore the monarchy, he wouldn’t be fit enough to keep going for long and would have to retire, which would delight Letitia but would mean that Catheter would become Melloria’s first constitutional king - something clearly beyond his ability. So he was really fighting this election on behalf of his son, the miserable, whining, ungrateful bugger!
“There was an incident at one of the campaign offices,” Lepager said after switching off his phone. “Two of our pollsters came in with ugly bruises on their faces. It looks like the People’s Party has reverted to is old ways.”
Godfrey’s face radiated consternation. “Should we provide our people with weapons?”
Lepager looked alarmed. “Oh dear Lord, I hope not,” he said. “The matter’s
been reported to the police, of course, and the foreign news media’s been alerted that the government’s party are resorting to violence and intimidation tactics. Perhaps you could mention it in your speech tonight.”
Godfrey was about to protest that he didn’t think he could manage another speech so soon after a day’s hard campaigning, when he caught Dawna’s glance. Her face was a picture of hope and optimism, mingled with concern.
“I guess we might have known this would happen,” she said. “Thank God you’re here to lead us to victory, Daddy.”
Godfrey gave a tired smile. “I’ll do my best, my Dear,“ he said tightly. “I’ll do my best.”
“Splendid!” Lepager exclaimed. “Well, we can’t sit here all afternoon – it’s time we hit the streets and pressed some flesh from our trusty campaigncar!”
For the rest of the afternoon, Godfrey, Letitia, Dawna and Anton hit the campaign trail. The campaignmobile rolled through North City, defying the gusts of squally weather that kept people off the streets and visited lots of small businesses, shaking hands with everyone they met. Shopkeepers, counterstaff, dishwashers and floor moppers, all received warm greetings, a leaflet and a recommendation to vote for Godfrey Gorm. A gallant florist presented Dawna with a large bouquet of roses, and she later flung roses at the people they passed, who scrambled for them where they fell. They arrived at the venue for that’s night’s rally with rose petals scattered all over the vehicle.
The rally had been organized by the People’s Party and mainly consisted of a debate between speakers from both contending parties. Godfrey and his family had been invited as guests, and a large crowd had already gathered outside when the campaigners arrived. The presence of foreign TV crews and reporters was expected to reduce the likelihood of violence or rowdiness from the People’s Party, but they all felt apprehensive as they cruised up to the hall through densely-packed crowds. Because of Dawna’s incredible crowd appeal, they were all being pushed forward continuously by the pressure of the people behind them, and Godfrey held Dawna’s hand to lessen her nervousness. He was steeling himself, both for his speech and the eventual
necessity of a talk with Dawna.
The hall was filled to overflowing and Godfrey was reminded of his first speech as presidential candidate, and giant viewing screens and loudspeakers behind the podium beamed and blared People’s Party propaganda. Most of the audience were ignoring them and clamoring to get a view of Dawna as she proceeded with the rest of the Gorms through the cheering crowd.
The TV cameras closed in and reporters chattered into their microphones as the Gorms made their way down the aisle to the speaker’s podium. Paul Slamil was already on the stage, his craggy features lined and sweating, and midway into a long harangue he glared at the Gorms as they trooped to the back of the podium.
“Vote for me and end this miserable charade once and for all!” he ranted. “Vote for me and end the memory of a corrupt and self-serving monarchy forever! Vote for me and help me create a society that cares for its members, where all except bloodsuckers and parasites are welcome. I promise you that with your votes, you will obtain jobs, houses, hospitals and a decent education for all. Give me the tools – your votes – and I’ll finish the job!” he paused and smiled ironically. “Incidentally your money would also be welcome and volunteers will pass among you with collection tins. Please give generously.”
Then he stood off to one side and waited while Godfrey stepped up to the microphone, During Slamil’s speech Godfrey had studied the man he was up against, and a glimmer of amusement played around his eyes.
“I would just like to turn the words of Mr Slamil around to echo my own position,” he began. “It goes like this: Vote for me, Godfrey Gorm, and end this miserable excuse for a government. Vote for me and end corruption in high places. Vote for me and begin to live free again, no longer dictated to and controlled by your government, but served by the people you’ve voted for.”
He turned and looked meaningfully at Slamil before adding: “and put an end once and for all to violence and intimidation toward one’s political opponents! I promise hope for the unemployed, ten per cent income tax, six weeks annual vacation with pay, a thirty-hour week and retirement with a generous income for all who sign up for the Church Party People’s Retirement Plan. Volunteers will pass among you with application forms!”
Godfrey stepped away from the microphone and the crowd applauded vigorously, people hugging and embracing each other and waving banners reading GODFREY GORM FOR PRESIDENT. Letitia warbled in his ear: “Well, that was an unexpected twist!” He smiled and pulled her forward to stand beside him as cameras flashed and flared. The picture in the Bugle next day, with Godfrey smiling and Slamil looking bemused, became a favorite pin-up for windows all over Melloria.
“Didn’t you promise an awful lot of things in that speech, Godfrey?” Letitia asked him on the drive back.
“No one believes election promises,” he replied. “Their purpose is to enthuse the people – nothing more.”
“Well, now you’ve got them enthused, and they’re going to vote for you,” she said, “What are you going to do after you’ve won?”
He smiled enigmatically, and turned to Lepager.
“We’ve got to get more publicity. We need to cover the whole country and we won’t manage that in four days in the campaigncar. How are we going to reach the rest of the country?”
“We’ll have to rely on foreign news coverage,” Lepager said. “All the major news items on Mellorian TV, radio and the press are issued by the Ministry of Information to the various media. Censors monitor each piece of copy and all the local TV and radio news is censored. All mention of the Church Party is banned, except to denigrate us. However, people can pick up foreign news and comments via satellite and cable TV – that’s our only chance.”
Chapter 53
The Dawna Factor
Back at the cottage after his second rally, Godfrey sat in the bathtub, bathing in tepid water and scrubbing himself until his skin throbbed. Then he shaved and brushed his teeth and took his tablets. Since his prostatectomy he no longer felt the warm flow of pain when he peed, although lately he’d begun experiencing respiratory problems. He put it down to the effort of making a speech every night. He was reasonably satisfied with his speeches, however. He knew he was no Winston Churchill, no John F Kennedy or Martin Luther King. But he could hold a crowd’s attention, and that was what mattered. He was now preparing for his talk with Dawna, about which he felt more apprehensive than any of his speeches.
When he knocked on the door of her room his nerves were steadier, helped by generous libations of brandy. He walked in with a bottle in his hand. “Do you mind?” he said, “I hate to drink alone.”
“No, that’s fine,” she answered. Shea had just eaten a candy bar without tasting it, hating herself for her craving for sweets. Her face was streaked with tears and she was wondering whether it would be better to kill herself or run back to Bulimia. The sight of Godfrey’s clean but tired face was a relief of sorts. I need a friend, she thought. “Come in.”
“Thanks.” He strolled past the bed where she was now sitting up, dropped into the armchair and twisted the cap off the bottle.
“How are you feeling?” he said.
“A bit fragile,” she conceded. “I know I’m giving everybody a frightfully hard time.”
He snorted, then pulled two mugs off the nightstand and splashed brandy into them. “Here.”
He handed her one. “This’ll make you feel better.”
“Cheers.”
They clicked mugs and drank.
“Look, you mustn’t feel bad about wanting to divorce Catheter,” he heard himself saying. “Speaking for myself, I’ll back you up to the hilt if it’ll make you happy again. It’s just this bloody election we’re all worried about.”
“I know. I promise you, Daddy, I’ve no intention of spoiling your chances. My Attorney merely told Catheter’s attorney I was ready to start proceedings as soon as victory for the Church Party was assured.”
“Yes. Thank you. That’s my girl.” He smiled while thinking: Of course, the next problem is Catheter’s succession. Oh well, perhaps we can skip a generation and appoint a regent.
He suddenly cheered up. “You know, I think your divorce from Catheter will turn out to be a blessing for you. You’ll probably marry someone extraordinary.”
“Marry?” She let out a short, empty laugh. “Who’d want to marry me?”
“Oh, come on – don’t be so damn modest.”
He gave a hollow chuckle, while looking somewhat discomfited. “You’re the world’s most beautiful woman.”
She took a sip of the brandy and closed her eyes. “Sometimes that can be a burden,” she said.
“Yes, I’m sure,” he agreed. Then, more lightly: “Let’s drink to victory.”
“Victory.”
He held out his mug and she tapped hers against it.
He studied her. God, you’re beautiful, he thought. No wonder they’re all after you. Under his searching gaze she lowered her eyes, delicately blushing.
“You have an important speech to make tomorrow night,” he told her, “to the Mother’s Union.”
“I know, and I’m awfully scared I’ll mess up,” she confided. She drained her mug and held it out for a refill.
He poured the mugs full.
“Speaking in public was a trial for me too, before I got used to it,” he said to reassure her. “I’d get the jitters so badly sometimes I’d throw up beforehand in the men’s room.”
I can’t believe he ever got that nervous, she thought, sipping her brandy. Not that throwing up is such a bad thing.
Catheter walked across the room and propped Angus’s picture on top of his nightstand. He found the innocent, blue-eyed chubbiness strangely comforting, and wondered what his son was doing in the nursery. Probably tormenting Betty, splashing her as she bathed him or bawling at her as she put him to bed.
His cell began to warble and he switched it on. His mother’s voice lambasted him, cutting through his tender thoughts like a blowtorch.
�
�You must try to understand, Catheter,” she was saying, “this election is absolutely crucial, not just for Godfrey and the Mellorian people, but for you – if you’re ever going to be king.”
Do I even want to be king? Catheter thought. That’s a bloody good question. He sat down in the chair and looked at his son’s photo. He imagined him growing into a sturdy toddler, his blond hair ruffled and his piping voice demanding to ride his tricycle all over the palace. He’d be climbing up his father’s leg when he was at his desk, pestering him to play hide-and-seek, and later falling asleep in his arms the way Lucinda did after sex.
“Our chances of winning absolutely depend on you holding off this divorce of yours,” Letitia was saying, not very convincingly.
But what if we lose? He thought, gazing at Angus’s simple smile.
The rest of the conversation with his mother was a nagging blur, as his mind wandered to thoughts of Lucinda, reminiscing about the times they had been together before their enforced separation. They had found a private love nest to kiss, fondle and copulate, secreting themselves away from the lewd stares of courtiers and servants, from the public and the paparazzi.
Catheter ended the conversation by promising to hold off the divorce until after the election.
On the evening of Dawna’s speech to the Mothers Union the street outside the hall, a modest building in South City, was busy with cars, crowds and media long before the former princess arrived. Volunteer monitors maintained a cordon across the front of the building, and only those with the correct badges were allowed through. Dawna’s arrival disrupted the barrier for a few minutes as people surged over it just to get close to her. She stopped to smile and wave before being swept inside, while monitors and police struggled to reestablish the blockade.
Watching the event on a foreign news station, Letitia felt pinpricks of excitement despite her reservations about her daughter-in-law. She watched shots of crowds flowing down the street like gusts of wind, and wished fervently that Godfrey had that kind of pulling power. Sitting beside her on the couch, Godfrey silently wished the same thing. Behind them, Lepager was bent over his laptop, examining the latest election polls.