‘We don’t have the time to go through the normal selection procedure,’ said Alf. ‘We assumed the Conservatives would at least have the decency to wait until Sir Max was buried before they announced the date of the by-election, but they took advantage of the fact that we don’t have a candidate in place.’
‘How typical of Fiona,’ said Sasha as the waiter returned with their coffee, which allowed him a moment to gather his thoughts. ‘I’m flattered,’ he said once the waiter had left, ‘but my problem is I simply don’t have the time...’
‘The by-election will be held three weeks from today, on Thursday, March the thirteenth,’ said Alf. ‘And as Sir Max had a majority of 12,214, you have absolutely no chance of winning.’
‘Then why should I waste my time?’
‘Because,’ said Mrs Campion, ‘if you were to reduce the majority in a Tory stronghold, it would look good on your CV when you eventually apply for a seat that you might actually win.’
‘But you’re a local man, Michael, why don’t you stand?’
‘Because Fiona Hunter always terrified the life out of me, but if she discovers that you’re the Labour candidate, she’ll be the one who’s on the back foot for a change. Besides which, you know more about her than any of us.’
‘I’ll need a little time to think about it,’ said Sasha. ‘How long have I got?’
‘Ten minutes,’ said Alf.
‘The motion before the association is that Sasha Konstantinovitch Karpenko be selected as the Labour Party candidate for the constituency of Merrifield. Those in favour?’ said the chairman, looking around the assembled gathering. Twenty-three hands shot up. ‘Those against?’ Not a single hand was raised. ‘Then I declare the motion carried unanimously,’ Alf Rycroft announced to as loud an ovation as twenty-three people could manage.
By the time Sasha boarded the last train back to London, he knew all twenty-three of their names, and not one of them thought he had a chance of winning.
‘Another woman?’ said Charlie as he crept into the bedroom just after midnight, determined not to wake her.
‘Just over twenty-eight thousand of them,’ said Sasha, as he placed his head on the pillow and explained why he’d travelled down to Merrifield that morning and returned in the evening as the Labour candidate for a by-election. ‘So you won’t be seeing much of me during the next three weeks.’
‘Congratulations, darling,’ said Charlie. She switched on the bedside light, and threw her arms around him. ‘What do you know about your opponent?’
‘Everything.’
‘How come?’
‘It’s Fiona Hunter.’
Charlie caught her breath and sat bolt upright before saying, ‘You have to beat her this time.’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid. They don’t count the Conservative votes in Merrifield, they weigh them.’
‘Not this time, they won’t,’ said Charlie, ‘because I’ll be on that train with you tomorrow morning, so she’ll have to beat both of us.’
‘But you’ve got your thesis to finish.’
‘I handed it in last week.’
‘And you didn’t tell me?’
‘I wanted to wait until I heard the result.’ She leant across and kissed her husband. ‘Sleep well, my darling,’ she said, before placing her head back on the pillow. ‘You must be exhausted.’
But Sasha couldn’t sleep, as his mind was racing with all that had happened in such a short space of time. He’d thought he was preparing for a party booking, and had ended up being booked by a party.
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 programme, 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. Rumour 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.’