* * *
Sasha and Charlie caught the 6:52 from Victoria to Merrifield the following morning, and arrived at the local Labour Party headquarters just before 8 a.m.
The chairman was sitting outside in his Ford Allegro waiting for them.
“Jump in,” he said, once Sasha had introduced his wife. “Nice to meet you, Charlie, but we’ve no time to waste.” He put the car into first gear, set off at a leisurely speed, and gave a running commentary as they drove down the high street and out into the countryside.
“There are twenty-six villages in the Merrifield constituency. They’re the people who give the Tories their majority, and Fiona Hunter has a branch office in every one of them.”
“How about us?” asked Charlie.
“We have one branch office,” said Alf, “and the chap who runs it is seventy-nine. But the town of Roxton, with its population of sixteen thousand and a paper mill, guarantees that we never lose our deposit.”
“Any good news?” asked Sasha.
“Not a lot,” admitted Alf. “Although Sir Max wasn’t universally popular in the constituency, he built a reputation for having the ear of the minister, and being able to get things done. He had a gift for finding out what was about to happen, and then taking the credit for it. Classic example, the building of a new hospital, which was part of the last Labour government’s long-term infrastructure program, but just happened to be completed during a Conservative administration. By the time the health minister opened the hospital, you’d have thought it was Sir Max’s idea in the first place, and he’d personally laid the first brick.”
“A gift his daughter has inherited,” said Charlie, with some feeling. “So how’s she going down?”
“They like her,” admitted Alf, “but then they’ve known her since the days when she was wheeled around the constituency in a pram. Rumor has it that her first words were ‘Vote Hunter!,’ and it wouldn’t surprise me if Sir Max had left her the constituency in his will. It doesn’t help our cause that the same name will appear on the ballot paper.”
“So what’s my line when the locals accuse me of being a carpetbagger?”
“Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,” said Alf.
“But you’ve already admitted we haven’t got a hope in hell,” said Sasha.
“Welcome to the world of realpolitik,” said Alf, “or at least the Merrifield version of it.”
* * *
“So what’s your first impression?” asked Michael when Sasha and Charlie joined the rest of the team for lunch at the Roxton Arms.
“The Conservatives may have all the best constituencies, but Labour still have all the best people,” he said as he ate a ham sandwich that his mother wouldn’t have given plate space to.
“Right,” said Mrs. Campion after Sasha had devoured a pork pie, washed down with half a pint of Farley’s. “The time has come to foist you upon an unsuspecting public. Our posters and leaflets haven’t been printed yet, so we’ll have to wing it for the first couple of days. And just remember, Sasha, there’s only one sentence you have to deliver again and again until you’re repeating it in your sleep,” Audrey added, as she pinned a large red rosette to his lapel.
Sasha, accompanied by his chairman, agent, and a couple of party workers, ventured out onto the high street. When he encountered his first constituent, Sasha said, “My name’s Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate for the by-election on Thursday, March the thirteenth. I hope I can rely on your vote?” He thrust out his hand, but the man ignored him and kept on walking. “Charming,” muttered Sasha.
“Shh!” said Mrs. Campion. “It doesn’t necessarily mean he won’t be voting for you. He could be deaf, or in a hurry.”
His second attempt was a little more successful, because a woman carrying a bag of shopping at least stopped to shake hands.
“What are you going to do about the closing of the cottage hospital?” she asked.
Sasha didn’t even realize Roxton had a cottage hospital.
“He’ll do everything in his power to get the council to reverse their decision,” said Alf, coming to his rescue. “So make sure you vote Labour on March the thirteenth.”
“But you haven’t got a hope in hell,” said the woman. “A donkey wearing a blue rosette would win Merrifield.”
“Labour has never had a better chance of winning the seat,” said Sasha, trying to sound confident, but the woman didn’t look convinced as she picked up her bag and walked off.
“Hello, I’m Sasha Karpenko, and I’m the Labour candidate—”
“Sorry, Mr. Karpenko, I’ll be voting for Hunter. I always do.”
“But he died last week,” protested Sasha.