32. A Restatement of Purpose

What Ho Proles!

I can’t begin to express how important the reassurance of Harry’s normality was to me in those dark days of April, 2005. The man was alpha and omega of my schemes. Harry was the key to my election success. It would be Harry and his dulcet BBC tones that would explain my policies to the world.

I left Harry to get settled in one of the guest bedrooms while I gathered the team together in the nursery. My plan was to get Harry up to speed over the weekend, feed him a few scripts for the week ahead, and generally construct a proper timetable of events that would show me off in the best light. If I could have Harry in my pocket before his camera crew arrived, then this plan of mine would work out quite magnificently.

My main concern so far, was that the campaign had been idling along in neutral with too much of the load being carried by a duck now lost to the turbines of Europe’s largest passenger plane. It was time for Harris, Jenkins, Spoon, Cropper, Henderson and the rest, to pull their weight. And before Harry got there, I decided to lay out my plan and instil in Team Murgatroid a new sense of purpose, if not that large baggy thing called ‘resolve’.

‘We must face the facts, people,’ I began, striding up and down before the fireplace. I realised I should have something in my hands to look more purposeful so I picked up the iron poker from the fireplace. ‘We’re doing poorly and I will not continue to tolerate it,’ I continued, swishing the poker through the air. ‘I hoped to see some of that British spirit that built the great ships, scaled Everest, and first whipped huskies to the North Pole.’

Colonel Cropper looked up from his hands. ‘The Titanic sank,’ he reminded me, ‘Hilary came from New Zealand, and I believe Captain Scott was beaten to the South Pole by Amundsen of Norway.’

As you know, I’m not a man who likes to be quoted detail.

‘Go play with your knobs and dials,’ I snapped and in my anger whipped the table with my poker thinking it a switch. Splinters flew even more readily than the gasps.
Embarrassed at the hole I’d made in the heirloom, I threw the poker back into the fireplace.

‘This simple truth is that we’re not doing well enough,’ I said, more soberly.

‘Speak for yourself,’ said Melvin Jenkins who had been so far been preoccupied by a drumstick and was now wiping his fingers on a napkin. ‘I’m doing quite fine. That was a lovely bit of chicken.’

I would have taken the man to task except I was reminded of the previous morning when I’d laid him out with my slipper. Besides, Melvin had come up with the plan to involve the BBC.

‘Irrespective of how we all feel,’ I continued, ‘I’m behind in the polls and people think worse of me now than when we began sixteen days ago. People see me as a man taken to throwing ducks to their death and the noises coming out of Central Office are no better. They’ve even threatened to conspire against me and vote Lib Dem.’

‘Dashed unfair of them,’ said Jenkins as he paused to wipe some chicken grease from his mouth.

‘Unfair perhaps but it also sounds eminently reasonable,’ I replied. ‘The only good news to come out of this constituency is that Mr. Mullins met a painless end. And let’s face it: that’s not much of a recommendation for voting Conservative.’

I turned to Samantha and Cyril, who were supposedly in charge of the local end of the campaign.

‘Cyril,’ I said with my finger wagging. ‘I hate to point fingers but where are the fetes I’m supposed to be opening? I’ve yet to kiss a child. Though I don’t relish the prospect, it is a job that simply needs to be done. And Samantha: where’s the campaign of leafleting going from door to door? I don’t mind wearing out shoe leather if it means we bring in the votes. Why has it not been arranged? Where is my high tempo campaign sure to leave the Lib Dems tailing in my considerable wake?’

Cyril leaned forward. ‘If we’re being honest, J.P., I decided that it was best to keep you away from the voters.’ He looked at the hole I’d made in the table. ‘I thought that what they don’t know can’t hurt us.’

‘You see!’ I said, sending a hand to ruff up my hair in astonishment at what I was hearing. ‘Can a man be victorious when surrounded by such flim flam? I want us to be bold. There are only twelve days left to turn this around.’

‘Then what do you suggest?’ asked Larry, who had been silent all along.

‘You’re my campaign manager,’ I challenged him. ‘What do you suggest?’

His eyes twinkled with mischief.

‘I would say make use of the friendly BBC chap you’ve got hidden away upstairs. We should challenge the status quo. Make the most of your positives. Stand in the face of the council and support the harvest festival. This is your land. You’ll do with it as you please and damn the consequences.’

‘Here here!’ cried Cyril.

‘That’s precisely my thinking,’ I agreed, at which point, a gentle knock on the door signalled the arrival of the gentleman from the press.

Harry came in looking just a little wary of the gathering.

‘No need to stand on show, Harry,’ I said, ushering him into my seat at the head of the table.

‘Meet my select squad of players. Cyril, Larry, Colonel Cropper, Melvin there with his chicken.’

‘Lovely chicken,’ Jenkins agreed.

‘And Samantha here will be your liaison with me throughout the campaign.’

‘Delighted,’ said Harry, raising himself slightly in his seat and flashing Samantha one of his I-work-for-the-BBC smiles.

I resumed my patrol of the fireside rug.

‘We’ve been just considering what I’d like to show you this week,’ I said. ‘After all, can’t have the BBC come down and not have a good story ready for you.’

‘Oh no need to worry yourself,’ he said, taking a notebook from his inside jacket pocket. ‘I’ve been told to follow you around and ask you plenty of leading questions.’

‘Have you now?’

‘I’m meant to lure you into saying something compromising or get you to dress in a toga. I understand they’ve got something nice going on with Oliver Letwin that department.’

‘A toga?’

‘I should imagine any odd ceremonial garb will do.’

My heart skipped a beat. It was the custom that during the annual harvest festival I wear my druid’s gown.

‘Don’t look so worried,’ Harry smiled. ‘You’re the chap giving me a second chance. I’m not about to let you down.’ He shrugged. ‘I just thought I’d mention it just in case you were thinking of doing anything you might not want the general public to see.’

I was about to explain my newest idea about holding a procession through the town when there was a knock on the door. Mrs Prigg’s head appeared around which was spread a scowl blacker than a coalman’s armpit.

‘Mrs Priggs?’ I said. ‘I thought I told you we weren’t to be disturbed. This is a high level meeting.’

Scowling a little towards Melvin who was waving another drumstick admiringly in her direction, she looked at me with one those damn impenetrable looks of hers. ‘It’s Mr. Hawking, sir,’ she said. ‘He’s come to see you on a matter of vital importance.’

‘Vital importance? What nonsense is this?’ I snapped. ‘I suppose he’s run out of firewood for that blasted wicker man? Can’t you just go and tell him to chop down another copse? We have more than plenty…’

She stepped into the room and held the door open for me.

'He’s most insistent that you see him,’ she said calmly. ‘It would appear that some men from the council have arrived with a bulldozer.’