to?”
“Foster Fordham,” I said.
“Right. And have you worked out what was plugging your sump?”
“Something that would melt when the oil got really hot.”
He laughed. “I refrigerated the oil and filtered it. There were enough wax globules to make a good thick plug. There are also cotton fibers which may have been from the wick of a candle. Now let me talk to your father.”
I handed over the receiver and listened to half of a long discussion that was apparently about whether or not to report the sabotage to the police. There had been no further action that my father knew of over the rifle shot but, he thought, and his opinion persuaded, that his friend Foster should write an account of what he’d done and what he’d found, and that my father should give a copy of it to the boys in blue as a precaution.
Polly and I listened to snatches. “They don’t have the manpower for surveillance ... they won’t do it ... you can’t guard against a determined assassin ... yes ...”—my father’s gaze slid my way—“... but he’s too young ... all right, then ... we’re agreed.” He put down the receiver carefully and with deliberation and a sigh said, “Foster Fordham will write a report for the police. Ben will nanny me to the best of his ability and Mervyn will have to put up with it. And now, dearest Polly, I’m going to abandon tomorrow’s canvassing and go where I’m not expected.”
Hanging from a hook on one wall was a large appointments calendar with an extensive square allocated to each day. Crystal had entered the basics of my father’s advance plans in the squares so that one could see at a glance what he would be doing on each day.
The program had started the previous Tuesday with “Candidate arrives. Office familiarization.” Wednesday’s schedule of “Drive around constituency” had been crossed off, and “Fetch son from Brighton” inserted instead and underneath that, “Dinner at Sleeping Dragon?” Nothing about being shot at on the way home.
The Quindle engagements and the infant school evening were listed for Thursday, and door-to-door canvassing and the Town Hall debate for Friday.
More of the same stretched ahead. If I hadn’t had the interest of attempting to foil seriously dangerous attacks on said candidate I would have suffered severe strain of the smiling muscles long before polling day.
How could he face it, I wondered. How could he enjoy it, as he clearly did?
“Tomorrow,” he said, pleased with his inspiration, “tomorrow we’ll go to Dorset County racecourse. Tomorrow will be for Ben. We’ll go to the races.”
My first reaction was joy, which he noted. Fast on joy’s heels came a sort of devastation that I couldn’t hope to be riding there, that I would spend the afternoon as an exile, envying my neighbor his ox and his ass and his saddle in the amateurs’ steeplechase; but I let only the joy show, I think.
“We’ll go in the Range Rover,” my father said decisively, pleased with his plan. “And Polly will come with us, won’t you, Poll?”
Polly said she would love to.
Did Polly ever lie?
We drank the coffee without stress, my father finally as calm as he’d achieved during this whole strange week. Polly went out through the back office to retrieve her car and drive home, which I understood was a house in a wood outside the town, and my father and I, bolting everything securely, climbed the steep little staircase and slept undisturbed until Saturday morning.
Mervyn leaned in heavy annoyance on the bell at breakfast time and of course frowned heavily over the change of destination. How did George ever hope to be successful in a marginal seat if he neglected the door-to-door persuasion routine, which was of paramount importance? The Dorset County racecourse, sin of sins, was outside the Hoopwestern catchment area.
Never mind, my father soothed him, the many Hoopwestern voters who went to the races might approve.
Mervyn, unconvinced,
“Foster Fordham,” I said.
“Right. And have you worked out what was plugging your sump?”
“Something that would melt when the oil got really hot.”
He laughed. “I refrigerated the oil and filtered it. There were enough wax globules to make a good thick plug. There are also cotton fibers which may have been from the wick of a candle. Now let me talk to your father.”
I handed over the receiver and listened to half of a long discussion that was apparently about whether or not to report the sabotage to the police. There had been no further action that my father knew of over the rifle shot but, he thought, and his opinion persuaded, that his friend Foster should write an account of what he’d done and what he’d found, and that my father should give a copy of it to the boys in blue as a precaution.
Polly and I listened to snatches. “They don’t have the manpower for surveillance ... they won’t do it ... you can’t guard against a determined assassin ... yes ...”—my father’s gaze slid my way—“... but he’s too young ... all right, then ... we’re agreed.” He put down the receiver carefully and with deliberation and a sigh said, “Foster Fordham will write a report for the police. Ben will nanny me to the best of his ability and Mervyn will have to put up with it. And now, dearest Polly, I’m going to abandon tomorrow’s canvassing and go where I’m not expected.”
Hanging from a hook on one wall was a large appointments calendar with an extensive square allocated to each day. Crystal had entered the basics of my father’s advance plans in the squares so that one could see at a glance what he would be doing on each day.
The program had started the previous Tuesday with “Candidate arrives. Office familiarization.” Wednesday’s schedule of “Drive around constituency” had been crossed off, and “Fetch son from Brighton” inserted instead and underneath that, “Dinner at Sleeping Dragon?” Nothing about being shot at on the way home.
The Quindle engagements and the infant school evening were listed for Thursday, and door-to-door canvassing and the Town Hall debate for Friday.
More of the same stretched ahead. If I hadn’t had the interest of attempting to foil seriously dangerous attacks on said candidate I would have suffered severe strain of the smiling muscles long before polling day.
How could he face it, I wondered. How could he enjoy it, as he clearly did?
“Tomorrow,” he said, pleased with his inspiration, “tomorrow we’ll go to Dorset County racecourse. Tomorrow will be for Ben. We’ll go to the races.”
My first reaction was joy, which he noted. Fast on joy’s heels came a sort of devastation that I couldn’t hope to be riding there, that I would spend the afternoon as an exile, envying my neighbor his ox and his ass and his saddle in the amateurs’ steeplechase; but I let only the joy show, I think.
“We’ll go in the Range Rover,” my father said decisively, pleased with his plan. “And Polly will come with us, won’t you, Poll?”
Polly said she would love to.
Did Polly ever lie?
We drank the coffee without stress, my father finally as calm as he’d achieved during this whole strange week. Polly went out through the back office to retrieve her car and drive home, which I understood was a house in a wood outside the town, and my father and I, bolting everything securely, climbed the steep little staircase and slept undisturbed until Saturday morning.
Mervyn leaned in heavy annoyance on the bell at breakfast time and of course frowned heavily over the change of destination. How did George ever hope to be successful in a marginal seat if he neglected the door-to-door persuasion routine, which was of paramount importance? The Dorset County racecourse, sin of sins, was outside the Hoopwestern catchment area.
Never mind, my father soothed him, the many Hoopwestern voters who went to the races might approve.
Mervyn, unconvinced,
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