31
Sasha
Merrifield
‘This one’s from the butcher,’ said Charlie. ‘It’s their monthly account.’
‘Pay it immediately,’ said Elena. ‘Sasha insists on paying all our suppliers by return of post; that way we’re guaranteed the finest cuts, the freshest vegetables, and bread that’s come out of the oven that morning. A week late and you get what’s left over from the day before. Two weeks late, and they palm you off with whatever they haven’t been able to pass on to their regular customers. A month late, and they’ll stop supplying you.’
‘I’ll write out a cheque now,’ said Charlie. ‘Sasha can sign it when he gets back from the constituency, and we can drop it off at the butcher’s on the way to the station tomorrow morning.’
‘It was good of you to take the day off and give me a hand with all this,’ said Elena, staring despairingly at the stack of post on the table in front of her.
‘Sasha’s only sorry he’s not here to deal with them himself, but he can’t afford to take even a couple of hours off at the moment.’
‘Does that mean he’s going to win?’ asked Elena.
‘No, it does not,’ said Charlie firmly. ‘Merrifield is a rock-solid Tory seat. Mother Teresa couldn’t hope to win it, even if she was up against the devil himself.’
‘But Sasha is up against the devil,’ said Elena.
‘Fiona’s not quite that bad.’
‘But if he can’t win,’ said Elena, as Charlie opened the next letter, ‘why is he bothering, when there’s still so much work to be done here?’
‘Because he feels he has to win his spurs and prove himself on the field of battle, if he hopes to eventually be offered a safe seat.’
‘But surely the people of Merrifield can work out that Sasha would make a better MP than Fiona Hunter?’
‘I have no doubt that Sasha would win if it was a marginal seat,’ said Charlie, ‘but it isn’t, so we’ll just have to accept he’s going to lose this one.’
‘I’m not sure I’ll ever understand English politics. In Russia, they know exactly who’s going to win, without bothering to count the votes.’
‘Just be grateful that cooking is an international language,’ said Charlie, ‘that doesn’t require translation. Now, this one,’ she said as she read the next letter, ‘is a reminder that the dishwasher in Elena Two is now three years old, and the company have recently launched a new model which has double the capacity of the old machine, and can wash everything at twice the speed.’
‘So when will the by-election take place?’ asked Elena.
‘Eleven days to go, and then we can all get back to normal.’
‘No, you can’t. Because then Sasha will be a Member of Parliament and your life will be even more hectic.’
‘Elena, how many times do I have to tell you, he can’t win,’ said Charlie, trying not to sound exasperated.
‘Never underestimate Sasha,’ said Elena under her breath, but although Charlie heard her, she didn’t respond, because she had to read the next letter a second time.
‘What’s the matter?’ asked Elena when she saw the look on Charlie’s face.
Charlie threw her arms around her mother-in-law, handed the letter to her and said, ‘Congratulations! Why don’t you read it for yourself, while I go and open a bottle of champagne.’
screamed the headline on the front page of the Merrifield Gazette.
‘But I never said that,’ protested Sasha.
‘I know you didn’t,’ said Alf, ‘but that’s what the journalist assumed you meant when you told him you were disappointed that Fiona wouldn’t agree to take part in a public debate.’
‘Should I complain to the editor?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Alf. ‘That’s the best free publicity we’ve had in years, and what’s more, she’ll have to respond, which will give us another headline tomorrow.’
‘I agree,’ said Charlie. ‘Let her worry about you for a change.’
‘And I see your mother is also making the headlines,’ said Alf, turning the page.
‘She most certainly is,’ said Sasha, ‘and it’s no more than she deserves, although even I was surprised that both restaurants were awarded a Michelin star.’
‘Once this is all over,’ said Alf, ‘I intend to take the whole team up to London so they can sample your mother’s cooking.’
‘Nice idea,’ said Charlie. ‘But be warned, Alf, the only thing she’ll want to know is why her son isn’t your Member of Parliament.’
‘So what are we meant to be up to today?’ asked Sasha, champing to get back to work.
‘There are still a few villages in the constituency that you haven’t visited yet. All you have to do is walk up and down the high street, and shake hands with at least one local resident, so no one can say you didn’t even bother to visit them.’
‘Isn’t that a bit cynical?’
‘And make sure you have lunch at a local pub,’ said Alf, ignoring the comment, ‘and tell the landlord you’re thinking of buying a house in the constituency.’
‘But I’m not.’
‘And then I want you back in Roxton to canvass the council estate between five-thirty and seven-thirty, when most people will be getting home from work. But you can take a break between seven-thirty and eight o’clock.’
‘Why then?’
‘Because you’ll only lose votes if you interrupt someone while they’re watching Coronation Street.’ Sasha and Charlie burst out laughing. ‘I’m not joking,’ said Alf.
‘And after that, do I keep on canvassing?’
‘No, never knock on anyone’s door after eight. I’ve arranged for you to address another public meeting, this time at the Roxton YMCA.’
‘But only twelve people bothered to turn up to the last one. And that included you, Charlie, and Mrs Campion’s dog.’
‘I know,’ said Alf, ‘but that’s still five more than the last candidate managed. And at least when you sat down, the dog was wagging its tail.’
Sasha was surprised by the warm welcome he received on the doorsteps and in the streets during the last week of the campaign. Several people commented on the fact that Fiona had refused Sasha’s challenge to a public debate on the grounds that she couldn’t agree on a date with all the candidates, which produced another favourable headline: ‘ANYTIME SUITS ME SAYS LABOUR CANDIDATE’.
‘You’ll know you’ve made it,’ said Alf, ‘when they replace the words “Labour candidate” with your name.’
‘Especially if they get the spelling right,’ said Mrs Campion.
Alf nodded towards Charlie, who was chatting to a young man outside the local Jobcentre. ‘And what’s more,’ said Alf, ‘if your wife was the candidate and your mother agreed to open a restaurant in Merrifield, we’d have a far better chance.’
During the last few days before the vote, Sasha didn’t even bother to go home, but slept in Alf’s spare room, so he was always up in time to greet the morning commuters.
Polling day was one long blur as Sasha rushed around the constituency, knocking on doors that had a tick on the party’s internal canvass returns, to remind their supporters to vote. He even drove some of the elderly, lame and lazy to the nearest polling station, although he wasn’t sure that all of them actually voted for him.
When the polls closed at ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Alf told him, ‘You couldn’t have done more. In fact I’d say you’re the best candidate we’ve ever had.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Sasha, then whispered to Charlie, ‘It was a one-horse race.’
After half a pint of bitter and a shared packet of crisps in the Roxton Arms, Alf suggested they make their way across to the town hall, where the count was already under way.