10 lb Penalty Page 6

  The end of his sentence drowned in laughter and cheers, and for fifteen more minutes he had them spell-bound, feeding them political nuggets in nourishing soup, producing a performance without microphone or footlights that they would never forget. All my life people would say to me “I heard your father speak in Quindle,” as if it had been a revelation in their existence: and it wasn’t altogether what he said that mattered, I reckoned, but his whole, honest, joyous, vigorous presentation.

  Against the final applause, Usher Rudd said to me, “Birthday?”

  “What?”

  “Your birthday?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I do have a birthday.”

  He thought me dim. “What’s your mother’s name?” he said.

  “Sarah.”

  “Her last name?”

  “Yes. She’s dead.”

  His expression changed. His gaze grew thoughtful and flicked downward to the Quindle Diary, which I held rolled in my hand. I saw him understand the obtuseness of my answers.

  “Bethune deserves it,” he said sharply.

  “I don’t know anything about him,” I said.

  “Then read my column.”

  “Even then ...”

  “Everyone has secrets,” he declared with relish. “I just find them out. I enjoy doing it. They deserve it.”

  “The public has a right to know?” I asked.

  “Of course they do. If someone is setting themselves up to make our laws and rule our lives they shouldn’t sleaze it off with dirty sex on the side, should they?”

  “I haven’t thought about it.”

  “If old George is hiding dirty secrets, I’ll find them out. What’s your mother’s name?”

  “Sarah. She’s dead.”

  He gave me a bitter, antagonistic glare.

  “I’m sure you do a good detective job,” I said mildly. “My mother’s name was Sarah Juliard. Married. Dead. Sorry about that.”

  “I’ll find out,” he threatened.

  “Be my guest.”

  My father disengaged himself from eager, clutching voters and turned to say he was ready for his lunch engagement: a volunteers’ gathering in a pub.

  “This,” I said, indicating the inhabitant of the pink tracksuit and the energetic shoes and baseball hat, “is Usher Rudd.”

  “Nice to know you,” my father said, automatically ready to shake hands. “Do you work for the party, er ... Usher?”

  “He writes for newspapers,” I said. I unrolled the Quindle Diary so that he could see the front page. “He wrote this. He wants me to tell him my mother’s name.”

  I was getting to know my father. Twenty-four hours earlier I wouldn’t have been aware that a tiny tensing of muscles and a beat of silence meant a fizzingly fast assessment of unwelcome facts. Not only powerful but dauntingly rapid: not only analytical but an instant calculator of down-the-line consequences. Some brain.

  He smiled politely at Usher Rudd. “My wife’s name was Sarah. Unfortunately she died.”

  “What of?” Usher Rudd, disconcerted by my father’s pleasant frankness, sounded aggressively rude.

  “It was a long time ago.” My father remained civil. “Come on, Ben, or we’ll be late.”

  We turned away and walked three paces; and Bobby Usher Rudd, darting round and wheeling in the running shoes, came to a halt facing us, standing in our way.

  His voice was thin, malicious and triumphant. “I’ll get you de-selected. Orinda Nagle will have her rights.”

  “Ah.” My father packed all the understanding in the world into one syllable. “So you rubbished Paul Bethune to give her a clear run, is that it?”

  Usher Rudd was furious. “She’s worth ten of you.”

  “She’s a lucky woman to have so many fans.”

  “You’ll lose.” Usher Rudd almost danced with rage. “She would have won.”

  “Well ...” My father detoured past him with me at his heels, and Usher Rudd behind us yelled the question I would never have asked but wanted like crazy to know the answer to. “If your wife died long ago, what do you do for sex?”

  My father certainly heard but there wasn’t a falter in his step. I risked a flick of a glance at his face but learned nothing: he showed no embarrassment or anxiety, only, if anything, amusement.

  The lunch in the pub was upbeat, the volunteers all intoxicated with the speech stops of the morning. In the afternoon we toured a furniture factory and then a paint factory, where the candidate (leaning on his walking stick) listened intently to local problems and promised remedies if he were elected. He shook countless hands and signed countless autographs, and left behind an atmosphere of hope.

  When Mervyn Teck had made the engagement he had expected it to be Orinda who charmed the wood-workers and the color mixers, and there had been resistance in parts of the factories to the one seen as a usurper. My father defused criticism by praising Orinda steadfastly without apologizing for having been chosen to take her place.

  “A natural-born politician,” one of the lady volunteers said in my ear. “The way the country’s leaning, we’d lose this marginal seat with Orinda, though she doesn’t believe that, of course. With your father we’ve a better chance, but voters are unpredictable and can often be downright vindictive, and they mostly vote for party, not for individuals, and the sleaze accusations won’t hurt Paul Bethune much, especially with male voters who privately don’t think a spot of adultery too much of a big deal, and will think ‘good luck to him.’ And you’d fancy women wouldn’t vote for adulterers, but they do.”

  “Doesn’t Usher Rudd shift the Xs from one slot to another?”

  “Not as much as he believes, the little weasel. It’s not the locals that pay attention to him as much as the big noises in Westminster. They’re all shit-scared of him digging into their pasts, and the higher they climb, the more they hate him. Haven’t you noticed that when an MP screws up his or her reputation, it’s their own party that dumps them quickest?”

  The correct answer was no, I hadn’t noticed, because I hadn’t been looking.

  On our way back to Hoopwestern I asked my father what he thought of Usher Rudd but he yawned, said he was flaked out and his ankle hurt, and promptly went to sleep. I drove carefully, still not instinctive in traffic, and woke the candidate by a jerking halt at a red light at a crossroads.

  “Usher Rudd,” he said without preamble, as if twenty minutes hadn’t passed between question and answer, “will burn his fingers on privacy laws.”

  I said, “I didn’t know there were any privacy laws.”

  “There will be.”

  “Oh.”

  “Usher Rudd has red hair under that baseball cap.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He came to the meeting after last night’s dinner. Polly pointed him out to me. He wore a black tracksuit and black sneakers. Didn’t you see him?”

  “I don’t remember him.”

  “Find out if he can shoot.”

  I opened my mouth to say “Wow” or “How?” and thought better of both. My father glanced at me sideways, and I felt him smile.

  “I don’t think it was him,” I said.

  “Why not?”

  “His bullets of choice are acid ink.”

  “Are you sure you want to be a mathematician? Why don’t you try writing?”

  “I want to be a jockey.” Might as well walk on the moon.

  “Exeter University required to know where you would spend your gap year before they offered you a deferred entry: that is to say, your going there not this October, but next year. They weren’t enthusiastic about racecourses.”

  “There’s an Exeter racecourse.”

  “You know damned well what they mean.”

  “I don’t like politics.” Change the subject.

  “Politics are the oil of the world.”

  “You mean... the world doesn’t run without oil?” He nodded. “When politics jam solid, yo
u get wars.”

  “Father ...,” I said.

  “Dad.”

  “No. Father. Why do you want to be a politician?”

  After a pause he said, “I am one. I can’t help it.”

  “But you’ve never... I mean ...”

  “I’ve never made a move before? Don’t think I haven’t considered it. I’ve known since I was your age or younger that one day I would try for Parliament. But I needed a solid base. I needed to prove to myself that I could make money. I needed to understand economics. And then there came a time not long ago when I said to myself ‘now or never.’ So it’s now.”

  It was the longest statement about himself that he’d ever made in my hearing; and he had simplified for my sake, I thought, an urge that had taken time to ripen and had burst out fully grown at The Sleeping Dragon. The Juliard dragon was awake now and roaring and prowling up broad Whitehall towards Number 10.

  Thinking about him, I lost the way home. He made no sarcastic comment when I stopped, consulted the map, worked out where I’d gone wrong and finally arrived in the parking lot from an unexpected direction; and for that forebearance alone I would have served him as an esquire to a knight. How old-fashioned could one get?

  It was well after six o’clock when we reached the parking lot, which, in consequence, was almost empty. All the bordering shops had closed for the day. The late-afternoon sunshine weakened to soft gold as I pulled up and applied Crystal’s brakes.

  There were dim lights in the office, but no people. I unlocked the door and we found a large note laid out prominently on Mervyn Teck’s desk.

  The Range Rover is in Rudd’s Repair Garage. They thoroughly overhauled it and found nothing wrong.

  Four

  I would have expected the nervous energy of the day-long performance in Quindle to have earned my father an evening’s rest, but I had barely begun to wake up to the stamina demanded of would-be public servants. It seemed that far from a quiet top-up of batteries, he was committed to another marathon shake-hands-and-smile, not this time in the chandeliered magnificence of The Sleeping Dragon’s all-purpose hall, but in much more basic space normally used as a schooling ground for five-year-olds in Hoopwestern’s outer regions.

  There were kids’ attempts at pictures pinned to corkboards all around the walls, mostly thin figures with big heads and spiky hair sticking straight out like Medusa’s snakes. There were simple notices—do not run and raise your hand—all written in self-conscious lowercase letters.

  Primary colors everywhere bombarded the eyesight to saturation point, and I couldn’t believe that this sort of thing had been my own educational springboard, but it had. Another world, long left behind.

  There were several rows of the temporary folding chairs that grew more and more familiar to me as the days passed, and a makeshift speaker’s platform, this time with a microphone that squeaked whenever tested, and on several other occasions when switched on or off.

  The lighting was of unflattering greenish-white fluorescent strips, and there weren’t enough of them to raise spirits above depression. Limbo must look like this, I thought: and the unenticing room had in fact drawn the sort of audience you could count on fingers and toes and still have enough left over for an abacus.

  Mervyn Teck met us on the doorstep looking at his watch and checking, but by good luck and asking the way (less pride on my part than shame of arriving late) we had turned up on the exact minute advertised by a scatter of leaflets.

  On the table on the platform, beside the temperamental microphone, there were a gavel for calling the meeting to order and two large plates of sandwiches secured by plastic wrap.

  Two or three earnest lady volunteers crowded around the candidate with goodwill, but it was plain, ten minutes after start time, that apathy, and not enthusiasm, had won the evening.

  I expected my father to be embarrassed by the small turnout and to hurry through the unsatisfactory proceedings, but he made a joke of it, abandoning the microphone, and sat on the edge of the platform, beckoning the sparse and scattered congregation to come forward into the first few rows, to make the meeting more coherent.

  His magic worked. Everyone moved forward. He spoke to them familiarly, as if addressing a roomful of friends, and I watched him turn a disaster into a useful exercise in public relations. By the time the sandwiches had been liberated from the plastic even the few who had come to heckle had been tamed to silence.

  Mervyn Teck looked both thoughtful and displeased.

  “Something the matter?” I asked.

  He said sourly, “Orinda would have drawn a much better house. She’d have packed the hall. They love her here: she presents prizes to the children here every term. She buys them herself.”

  “I’m sure she’ll go on doing it.”

  I meant it without irony, but Mervyn Teck gave me a glance of dislike and moved away. One of the lady volunteers sweetly told me that the time of the meeting had clashed with the current rave series on the television, and that even the pubs were suffering from it on Thursday nights. Tomorrow would be different, she said. Tomorrow the Town Hall will be packed.

  “Er ...,” I said, “what’s happening in the Town Hall?”

  “But you’re his son, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “But you don’t know that tomorrow night your father goes face-to-face in a debate with Paul Bethune?”

  I shook my head.

  “Fireworks,” she said happily. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  My father, when I asked him about it on the short drive back to the center of Hoopwestern, seemed full of equal relish.

  “I suppose,” I said, “there’ll be more point to it than the sort of fiasco tonight could have been.”

  “Every vote counts,” he corrected me. “If I won only a few tonight, that’s fine. You have to win the floaters over to your side, and they have to be persuaded one by one.”

  “I’m hungry,” I said as we passed a brightly lit take-away, so we backtracked and bought chicken wings with banana and bacon, and even there my father, recognized, fell into political chat with the man deep-frying chips.

  In the early morning I went out and bought a copy of the Gazette. Sleaze and Paul Bethune filled pages four and five (with photographs) but the front-page topic of concern was headlined “Juliard Shot?”

  Columns underneath said yes (eyewitnesses) and no (he wasn’t hurt). Statements from the police said nothing much (they couldn’t find a gun). Statements from onlookers, like the self-important gunshot expert, said Juliard had definitely been the object of an assassination attempt. He thought so and he was always right.

  The consensus theory of the reporters (including Usher Rudd) was that resentment against Juliard was running high in the Orinda Nagle camp. The editor’s leader column didn’t believe that political assassination ever took place at so low a level. World leaders, perhaps. Unelected local candidates, never.

  I walked through the town to the ring road looking for Rudd’s Repair Garage and found the staff unlocking their premises for the day. They had a large covered workshop and an even larger wire-fenced compound where jobs done or waiting stood in haphazard rows. The Range Rover was parked in that compound, sunlight already gleaming on its metallic paint.

  I asked for, and reached, the manager, whose name was Basil Rudd. Thin, red-haired, freckled and energetic, his likeness to Usher Rudd made twins a possibility.

  “Don’t ask,” he said, eyeing my newspaper. “He’s my cousin. I disown him, and if you’re out to be busy with your fists, you’ve reached the wrong man.”

  “Well ... I really came to collect that Range Rover. It’s my father’s.”

  “Oh?” He blinked. “I’ll need proof of identity.”

  I showed him a letter of authorization signed by my parent and also my driver’s license.

  “Fair enough.” He opened a drawer, picked out a labeled ring bearing two keys and held them out for me to take. “Don’t f
orget to switch off the alarms. I’ll send the bill to Mr. Juliard’s party headquarters. OK?”

  “Yes. Thank you. Was there anything wrong?”

  He shrugged. “If there was, there isn’t now.” He consulted a spiked worksheet. “Oil change. General check. That’s all.”

  “Do you think I could talk to whoever did the job?”

  “Whatever for?”

  “Er ... I’ve got to drive my father around in that vehicle and I’ve never driven it before... and I thought I might get some tips about engine management... so I don’t overheat it by crawling along the roads canvassing door to door.”

  Basil Rudd shrugged. “Ask for Terry. He did the work.”

  I thanked him and sought out Terry, who gave three instant physical impressions: big, bald, belly. Brown overalls, grease-stained from his job.

  He too eyed my newspaper. He spoke with venom in a powerful Dorset voice.

  “Don’t mention Bobby bloody Rudd ’round here.”

  I hadn’t been going to, but I said, “Why not?”

  “He’ll listen to you and your missus in bed with one of them window-vibrating bugging contraptions and before you know it, never mind the sex, he’ll be printing what you said about the boss having his hand up a customer’s skirt when she brings her car in for the twentieth time to be overhauled, though there’s bugger all wrong with it in the first place. Got me sacked, Bobby did.”

  “But,” I suggested, “you’re still here.”

  “Yeah, see, Basil took me on because he loathes Bobby, who’s his cousin, see. It was over in Quindle I got sacked by Bobby’s dad, that’s Basil’s uncle, drunk half the time ...” He broke off. “If it’s not to complain about Bobby Usher bleeding Rudd, what is it you want, lad?”

  “I ... er... you serviced my father’s Range Rover. What was wrong with it?”

  “Apart from the fancy paintwork?” He scratched his shiny head. “Foreign body in the oil sump. I suppose you might say that. Nothing else. I gave it a good clean-out.”

  “What sort of foreign body?”

  He looked at me dubiously. “I don’t rightly know.”

  “Well, um ... how do you know it was there?”