“Why didn’t you inform the police immediately?”
“Didn’t ask,” she said simply. “They’ve been after him for a long time for a lot of things they couldn’t pin on him, but for once he was in the clear.”
Andrew finished writing his notes and then rose to leave. Mrs. Bloxham heaved herself out of the chair, dispensing yet more horsehair on to the floor. They walked to the door together. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you a cup of tea but I’m right out at the moment,” she said. “If you had come tomorrow it would have been all right.”
Andrew paused on the doorstep.
“I get the pension tomorrow, you see,” she replied to his unasked question.
It took Elizabeth some time to find a locum to cover for her so that she could travel to Redcorn for the interview. Once again the children had to be left with a baby-sitter. The local and national press had made him the hot favorite for the new seat. Elizabeth put on what she called her best Conservative outfit, a pale blue suit with a dark blue collar that hid everything on top and reached well below her knees.
The journey from King’s Cross to Newcastle took three hours and twenty minutes, on what was described in the timetable as “the express.” At least Simon was able to catch up with a great deal of the paperwork that had been stuffed into his red box. Civil servants, he reflected, rarely allowed politicians time to involve themselves in politics. They wouldn’t have been pleased to learn that he spent an hour of the journey reading the last four weekly copies of the Redcorn News.
At Newcastle they were met by the wife of the Association treasurer, who had volunteered to escort the minister and Mrs. Kerslake to the constituency to be sure they were in time for the interview. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Elizabeth, as she stared at the mode of transport that had been chosen to take them the next forty miles.
The ancient Austin Mini took a further hour and a half through the winding B-roads before they reached their destination, and the treasurer’s wife never drew breath once throughout the entire journey. When Simon and Elizabeth piled out of the car at the market town of Redcorn they were physically and mentally exhausted.
The treasurer’s wife took them through to the constituency headquarters and introduced them both to the agent.
“Good of you to come,” he said. “Hell of a journey, isn’t it?”
Elizabeth felt unable to disagree with his judgment. But on this occasion she made no comment, feeling that if this was to be Simon’s best chance of returning to Parliament she had already decided to give him every support possible. Nevertheless she dreaded the thought of her husband making the journey to Redcorn twice a month as she feared they would see even less of each other than they did at present, let alone the children.
“Now the form is,” began the agent, “that we are interviewing six potential candidates and they’ll be seeing you last.” He winked knowingly.
Simon and Elizabeth smiled uncertainly.
“I’m afraid they won’t be ready for you for at least another hour, so you have time for a stroll round the town.”
Simon was glad of the chance to stretch his legs and take a closer look at Redcorn. He and Elizabeth walked slowly round the pretty market town, admiring the Elizabethan architecture that had somehow survived irresponsible or greedy town planners. They even climbed the hill to take a look inside the magnificent perpendicular church which dominated the surrounding area.
As he walked back past the shops in the high street Simon nodded to those locals who appeared to recognize him.
“A lot of people seem to know who you are,” said Elizabeth, and then they saw the paper rack outside the local newsagent. They sat on the bench in the market square and read the lead story under a large picture of Simon.
“Redcorn’s next MP?” ran the headline.
The story volunteered the fact that although Simon Kerslake had to be considered the favorite, Bill Travers, a local farmer who had been chairman of the county council the previous year, was still thought to have an outside chance.
Simon began to feel a little sick in the stomach. It reminded him of the day he had been interviewed at Coventry Central nearly eight years before. Now that he was a minister of the Crown he wasn’t any less nervous.
When he and Elizabeth returned to constituency headquarters they were informed that only two more candidates had been seen and the third was still being interviewed. They walked around the town once again, even more slowly this time, watching the shopkeepers put up their colored shutters and turn “Open” signs to “Closed.”
“What a pleasant market town,” said Simon, trying to find out how his wife was feeling.
“And the people seem so polite after London,” she added.
Simon smiled as they headed back to the party headquarters. As they passed Simon and Elizabeth they bid the strangers “Good evening,” courteous people whom Simon felt he would have been proud to represent. But although they walked slowly Elizabeth and he could not make their journey last more than thirty minutes.
When they returned a third time to constituency headquarters the fourth candidate was leaving the interview room. She looked very despondent. “It shouldn’t be long now,” said the agent, but it was another forty minutes before they heard a ripple of applause, and a man dressed in a Harris tweed jacket and brown trousers left the room. He didn’t seem happy either.
The agent ushered Simon and Elizabeth through, and as they entered everyone in the room stood. Ministers of the Crown did not visit Redcorn often.
Simon waited for Elizabeth to be seated before he took the chair in the center of the room facing the committee. He estimated that there were about fifty people present and they were all staring at him, showing no aggression, merely curiosity. He looked around at the weather-beaten faces. Most of them, male and female, were dressed in tweed. In his dark striped London suit Simon felt out of place.
“And now,” said the chairman, “we welcome the Right Honorable Simon Kerslake, MP.”
Simon had to smile at the mistake so many people made in thinking that all ministers were automatically members of the Privy Council, and therefore entitled to the prefix “Right Honorable” instead of the plain “Honorable” accorded to all MPs — and then only when they were present in the House.
“Mr. Kerslake will address us for twenty minutes, and he has kindly agreed to answer questions after that,” added the chairman.
Simon felt confident he had spoken well, but even his few carefully chosen quips received no more than a smile, and his more serious comments elicited little response. This was not a group of people given to showing their emotions. When he had finished he sat down to respectful clapping and murmurs.
“Now the minister will take questions,” said the chairman.
“Where do you stand on hanging?” said a scowling middle-aged woman in a gray suit seated in the front row.
Simon explained his reasons for being a convinced abolitionist. The scowl did not move from the questioner’s face and Simon thought to himself how much happier she would be with Ronnie Nethercote as her member.
A man in a hacking jacket asked: “How do you feel, Mr. Kerslake, about this year’s farm subsidy?”
“Good on eggs, tough on beef, and disastrous for pig farmers. Or at least that’s what I read on the front page of Farmers Weekly yesterday.” Some of them laughed for the first time. “It hasn’t proved necessary for me to have a great knowledge of farming in Coventry Central, but if I am lucky enough to be selected for Redcorn I shall try to learn quickly, and with your help I shall hope to master the farmers’ problems.” Several heads nodded their approval.