28. A Frank Exchange of Opinions

What Ho Proles!

T.H.U.M.P.

Don’t let the fact that they sound like a criminal organisation mislead you into thinking that this gang of council pedants and lollipop ladies were anything but the SPECTRE of the British political landscape. Hiding a truth behind a falsehood is not the way of a truly shrewd mind. Hide the truth behind a truth and a falsehood behind a falsehood. This is the only way to keep the public on its toes and Millicent Granger really is Ernst Stavro Blofeld without a white cat but infinitely superior teeth.

‘Is your campaign going well, Mr. Murgatroid?’ asked this criminal mastermind who wears more face powder than ruddy-nosed fellows called Coco.

‘Bouncing along like a sponge pudding,’ I replied though a mouthful of plonk I was hoping would douse the raging fires that lay in the pit of my stomach where I usually hide my nerves. ‘You might as well face up to it, Ms. Granger, but the Murgatroid bandwagon is now rolling with an unstoppable force.’

‘Oh,’ she said though another of those damning smiles, ‘that’s usually the way when things start to go downhill so rapidly.’

I could see I would have to treat this quick-witted opponent with kid gloves, or if not kid gloves, then gloves made from some other sort of infant.

‘That’s a fine reply and no mistake,’ I returned, ‘but it is hardly the truth. Barely a day goes by without a good bit of news coming into camp. I’ve struck a chord with the public.’

‘Probably an E7th diminished,’ she replied.

‘Well, since you bring up the subject of music,’ I carried on, ‘only last night I was speaking with Sir Cliff Richard. Chap can’t do enough for me. We play tennis at the same club, don’t you know? He wants to come out with me the next time I hit the high streets. I had to let the poor fellow down. We already have Mr. Mullins, you see...’

Her face revealed no emotion but I thought I could detect a flicker of activity behind her eyes.

‘How is that a problem?’

I expect she couldn’t stop herself from asking the question. Inquisitiveness is like that. It can lead you down many a muddy lane.

I laughed in a forthright manner denoting a man dismayed by another person’s naivety.

‘It is a problem, my dear Ms. Granger, because Cliff is allergic to feathers.’

‘Is he?’

‘He most certainly is. He is a man much menaced by the common house sparrow.’

‘I never knew...’

‘Well, when was the last time you saw him pose with a bird? An ostrich, an eagle, or even one of those little finches, they can all reduce him to coughing fits.’

‘Well I never...’

‘And did you know the man can’t stand within twenty feet of a chicken?’

‘I didn’t.’

‘Well, there you go. It’s a terrible condition and a burden to all his friends.’

‘I should imagine it is,’ she agreed.

‘I remember one Christmas, I had to save him from a shuttlecock that somebody had left on our tennis court. Made from real goose feathers... It was close run thing. The history of Christmas number ones would have been very different.’

‘He must have been grateful.’

‘Oh, exceedingly so!’ I replied. ‘The man’s a living angel, you know? But for the feather issue, I’d say he’d have his wings by now...’

Granger smiled another self-important smile rinsed in undiluted bleach. I felt my eyes water.
‘But wouldn’t he have been much more impressive to have the voters meet Cliff Richard than...’ She let the words trail off as she looked towards Mr. Mullins.

‘A duck?’ I shook my head. ‘You’re not deceiving me, Ms. Granger. I’m quite sure your private polling is telling a very different tale. We both know that Mr. Mullins here is a winner. He’s more than a winner. He’s one stick of political dynamite. The same can hardly be said about Cliff, can it now?’

It was all a series of lies of course but the woman was wriggling on the end of a hook of her own devising.

What private polling we’d done confirmed that I was trailing in third place. But one of the tactics we shrewd political types employ is to dress your weaknesses up as strengths. Or more specifically, hide lies behind lies and truths behind… well, I’m sure you’ve got the eight by ten. More to the point is that Millicent Granger appeared to believe every single word.

‘Well,’ she sighed with a hint of resignation, ‘I guess we’ll have to see how it turns out on election night.’

‘We will indeed,’ I said, already congratulating myself on putting a spanner in the emotional works of my opponent.

Only, that’s when she did something I just didn’t expect. She linked her arm though my own as though we were lifelong companions. I couldn’t help but pull my arm away and take a step backwards.

‘Oh, Mr. Murgatroid! You don’t need to be on your guard,’ she soothed. ‘I really won’t bite.’

‘With those teeth, I would hope not,’ I nearly said but chose the more dignified ‘Oh, I’m sure you mean to.’

She merely laughed and took my arm again.

‘You know, I think that we’re probably very much alike,’ she said, untying Mullin’s lead as she began to walk me away from the crowd. ‘Two public spirited individuals who believe we have the right plans for the constituency and believe the democratic process should be allowed to run its course.’

I smiled with that undoubted charm that has won many a lady’s heart but I otherwise remained perfectly quiet.

She tugged Mr. Mullins away from a plant pot that had taken his interest and dragged him around the corner of the foyer to where some chairs lay in a secluded bay.

‘Such a nice animal,’ she said as she handed me his lead. ‘And quite a fortunate stroke of luck that you have him to distract the voters from your policies. You should know, Jacob... May I call you Jacob? You must call me Milly. You do know, Jacob, that you will lose and that Cliff Richard is certainly not allergic to feathers.’

‘You doubt my word?’

‘I most certainly do. I’ve been a fan of Cliff Richard since I was a girl. I’ve contributed to the official club newsletter for the last fifteen years, seen him in concert thirty two times, and I own the original bus driver’s hat he wore in Summer Holiday.’

‘Do you now?’

‘I’ve also met Sir Cliff on seven different occasions and he certainly never mentioned your name.’

‘What can I say? Cliff’s a man of discretion.’

‘Let’s spare each other these games, shall we? You are going to lose this election.’

‘And you will win, I suppose?’

‘Me? Heavens no!’ she laughed. ‘I’m merely in it to see that you lose.’

I pulled away from her.

‘What kind of deluded game are you playing, you devil? Have you no shame? Linking a man’s arm while you admit to stabbing him in the back.’

‘It’s nothing personal, Jacob.’

‘Isn’t it? You insult a man, parade his duck, and deny him the right to call Cliff Richard a friend. How much more personal can it get?’

‘It’s no more personal than many things that happen to us in life,’ she said. ‘No more personal, for example, than that time you knocked me over.’

‘Knocked you over?’ I cried. ‘Nonsense!’

For a moment, I thought she was about to disrobe and display wounds of various hues but she merely pressed down her dress.

‘Oh, I can’t believe you don’t remember. A woman tends to remember the time she was hit by a Bentley.’

‘I deny the charge and even if I admitted to it, I could never have meant anything by it.’

‘You pipped your horn.’

‘If I did, it was as a warning.’

‘That was after you’d hit me. I had to spend nine months undergoing spinal readjustment therapy.’

Personal or not, I was caught off guard. Had I really hit her with the Bentley? I think I might have remembered. In any event, it sounded like it had been a bit of a red letter day.

‘So, your saying that you’re only running against me because of some trumped up charge that I once knocked you over?’

‘Except for the “trumped up” bit, I’d say that’s a fair assessment.’

I couldn’t help but feeling a bit of relief. There’s nothing worse than somebody having a vendetta against you without proper reason. I would imagine it’s rather like being born a Welshman.

‘So,’ I said, breathing a sigh of relief. ‘You’re saying I created the straw the nearly broke the lollipop lady’s back?’

‘It is not a laughing matter, Jacob.’

‘I was about to enjoy more of an ironic smirk,’ I replied and meant it.

‘The people of this constituency are tired of your drunken ways. We hear all sorts of tales about the goings on up at the Hall and hiding behind a Tory manifesto is not going to save your skin when it comes to people remembering the things you’ve done to them for the last twenty years.’

I could handle most things but such an assault on the Tory manifesto was too much. Loyalty to Michael Howard meant that I couldn’t let it pass without response.

‘Listen here,’ I said, raising myself to my full height, ‘I’ll not have you dismiss my policies when you are nothing but a one issue candidate hoping to reap all the protest votes.’

‘Oh, I don’t deny I’m hoping to appeal to the basest instincts of the voters but I have plenty of other polices.’

‘Such as ruining a perfectly good harvest festival?’

He eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what you mean?’

It was high time to go on the offensive and I could not stop myself poking a finger into her shoulder.

‘I’m onto your little games, my lady. Don’t come claiming ignorance and trying to deceive the Honourable Jacob P. Mugatroid. I wasn’t born yesterday, nor the day before. Are you going to tell me that you aren’t part of your brother’s plans to disrupt a religious ritual that has gone on for centuries? You pry into my affairs and claim to be speaking for the public good? These are dark days when a serious political campaign can be reduced to personal attacks.’

She raised herself up a few inches of her own.

‘And it’s a darker day when a man hides behind a duck. People are not fools, Murgatroid!’

‘No they are not,’ I responded. ‘And people will see through your little game when they find out about how little you care for their local customs.’

‘Ha!’ she spat. ‘Local customs? I should think we would be better rid of all local customs if it means we get rid of the local tyrants as well... You only want to go into politics to keep your indolent ways. Do you ever consider how you spend your days?’

‘At least I don’t menace road users,’ I said much too loudly for my intention. Faces began to appear at the entrance to the alcove.

‘I’m no menace,’ she replied. ‘Unlike you and that heap of a car.’

‘That car is a Bentley, I’ll let you know.’

‘Bentley? More likely it’s just plain bent. I’ve never seen anything so gauche.’

‘Gauche!’

‘Oh, it is both gauche and ugly.’

‘Well, you should look in the mirror sometime,’ I replied before I could stop myself.

Her face seemed to fall a whole foot. Prettier landslides I’m sure there have been.

‘I beg you pardon?’

‘Well, those teeth of yours aren’t exactly demur. Wasn’t it Shakespeare who went on about teeth as white as whale's bone? I should imagine it took the Norwegian fleet to fill your mouth.’

She pressed herself up against me and I feel her hot breath on my chin. ‘You see, Murgatroid,’ she whispered. ‘You see why people won’t vote for you? You see what a cruel and unmitigated devil that you are? You see why you trail in the polls?’ More than a hint of red blushed through her makeup. ‘You see how you are the symptom of great malaise that has this constituency in its thrall? Men like you have people in their pockets and you take them all for granted. The Murgatroids have created a little fiefdom for themselves over the centuries but we are now living in the age of the internet. This will be the age of real equality.’

‘Well, good luck to you,’ I said, seeing Jimmy appear in the foyer. I tugged at Mr. Mullins’ lead. ‘I now have a superjumbo to launch, a speech to give, and media to satisfy.’

Jimmy came limping up to me as soon as I entered the foyer. He was already wearing a hard hat and a set of ear protectors hung around his neck. He handed me a bright luminous jacket and a hard hat of my own.

‘We’re all set,’ he said. ‘I’ll just say a few words to the crowd. Are you leaving him here?’

We looked to Mr. Mullins who with his usual casual air seemed oblivious to the drama. Very reassuring things: ducks. My hand tightened around his leash.

‘My public would be disappointed.’

Five minutes later, a runway official finished explaining how I should gesture with my one bright luminous paddle before I walked with Jimmy out to the edge of the runway where a small podium had appeared to have been fashioned from a series of crates covered in cloth.

‘Take it easy, Jack,’ he said, helping me up. ‘We can’t have the guest of honour breaking his neck of a crate of South African Satsuma.’ He stepped up to the microphone and that piercing accent was soon shrieking out to the crowd.

‘Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the nineteenth Smallchurch Festival of the Skies!’

The crowd responded like British prole crowds often do: they pretended they are American. Californian whoops and exclamations filled the English countryside.

Jimmy waved down the euphoria.

‘We’ve got a whole range of aircraft to excite you today, from some beautiful veterans of the sky, to the very newest fighter aircraft and, as you can see behind us, the finest of passenger aircraft. I really do believe that this will be the best display we’ve ever put on here at Smallchurch. And to get the show going, I’d like you to welcome today’s special guest of honour to wave off our Airbus 320. You might know him as your local Conservative candidate but I’m sure many more will know him for his famous friend.’

A smattering of applause.

‘Yes, that’s right. With Mr. Mullins the duck, it’s Mr. Jacob Peas Murgatroid.’

The smattering turned torrential and on cue, Mullins flapped his wings.

‘Thank you, Sir James,’ I said. ‘And thank you all for that warm welcome.’

Silence.

‘I hope we can rely on your votes at the coming election.’

More silence and, if anything, a bit thicker.

I picked up Mullins and held him up to the microphone. I tugged and a feather came loose.

‘Quack,’ he said.

What can I say that doesn’t portray me as being able to work a crowd like a political titan? The applause was louder than it had been Jimmy and it carried on for the next few minutes, even obscuring my small speech on local tax initiatives for businesses involving candles.

‘Thanks you for that,’ I said as the applause finally died down. ‘And Mr. Mullins thanks you too.’

Jimmy stepped forward.

‘Okay then. Well, while we’re getting Mr. Murgatroid ready, can I remind you of our ample bathroom facilities and tell you about our many council sanctioned hot food and beverage vendors. And in a couple of minutes, the festival of the skies will begin!’

‘Right,’ said Jimmy, turning to me and slapping his hands together. ‘Let’s go and light the blue touch paper and stand right back.’

‘No problem,’ I said, shifting Mr. Mullins in my arms.

I walked with Jimmy out into the middle of the runway and held the paddle high in my hands and, just as I had been shown, I waved the paddle in the air.

I could see a few indifferent faces in the cockpit of the jet and one of them seemed to wave back before the engines began to whine.

Even from a few hundred metres away, the sound soon leaked through the ear protectors and I began to jog back to the side of the runway. I could feel my suit being tugged by the air being sucked into the jets engines.

It was an exhilarating moment. The jet engines roared and the crowd roared as I waved to them; streamers flying in the wind, a luxurious rippling line of red, white, and blue against the clear skies of southern England. This was exactly how Larry Harris had said to would be. It was a moment to savour. The media would love it!

‘It’s a good day to be a Tory,’ I shouted to Mr. Mullins who appeared to understand what I meant as he gave one of the loudest quacks I’d ever known from the little fellow.

It was all I could do to finally give my arm another wave knowing that somewhere out there, Millicent Granger would be watching me with a growing bewilderment as her anti-Murgatroid strategy was failing in the face of so much public support.

Now, with hindsight, I blame Granger for everything that happened next, though I am also aware that I should have been paying more attention.

I was running from the tarmac when I felt Mr. Mullins slip from my arms.

Quick as anything, I leapt for him.

And I missed him by a good few feet.

I fell roughly, giving a slight whimper as I heard cloth rip and I could see a pair of two hundred pound trousers become new dusters for Mrs. Priggs. When I looked up, I was looking straight at Mr. Mullins who was busy flapping his wings and running frantically around the tarmac.

I thought he was trying to waddle back to me before I realised that he was catching the breeze under his wings. A point of equilibrium was maintained as he seemed to hover between the ground and the air. One moment I was looking into his face, those black little eyes looking desperately towards me for help, and the next he was flying, clipped wings or no clipped wings, catching an updraft through his feathers.

He flew like I would have doubted he would have been able to fly: a noble sight indeed. This rather plump white cross set against the blue, his head lifted high to the wind. He soared higher and higher, all the time appearing to find purchase on the air and begin to control his banking movements.

In a fraction of second, I knew that all the talk of him being a mascot had robbed him of that great honour afforded to all ducks. He was a bird again and he was flying free. Free to fly straight into the roaring engine of the world’s largest superjumbo.