V. McDermid - Union Jack

Jennifer nodded as she jotted notes with a shiny silver fountain pen. ‘And you arrived here when?’

Lindsay closed her eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. ‘Monday afternoon,’ she said.

The foyer of Wilberforce Hall was buzzing. But the focus of attention wasn’t the long trestle table where arriving delegates were registered and supplied with their conference packs. It was the photocopied A4 sheets that the earlier arrivals were waving under the noses of their friends and acquaintances as soon as they put their noses across the threshold. As Lindsay joined the queue, the pony-tailed young man behind her was accosted by a woman in her mid-forties.

‘Have you seen this, Liam?’ the woman demanded in a harsh Ulster accent. ‘It’s outrageous! Look what they’re saying about Fearghal O’Donovan!’

Lindsay sneaked a look over the young man’s shoulder as he took the brandished sheet of paper. She read:

Conference Chronicle The Paper Off The Record

When Irish Ayes Are Lying?

Some of us were more than slightly gobsmacked at the turn-out in the election for an assistant general secretary (Ireland) last month. For those of us more familiar with the depressingly low numbers of members who normally vote in elections for fulltime officials, seeing returns of sixty- two per cent was pretty astonishing. And a staggering eighty-nine per cent of them voted for former despatch worker Fearghal O’Donovan .

The reason for O’Donovan’s phenomenal success, however, has more to do with chicanery than popularity. O’Donovan has always performed better in secret ballots than in workplace shows of hands .

The reason for this is that in Irish secret ballots, the ballot papers never actually reach the voters, particularly in the offices of more remote local papers where there is traditionally a low or nonexistent turn-out in union elections .

And in the major newspaper offices where the forms are actually handed out, Fearghal’s cohorts simply make sure they collect up any unused forms, then put the crosses in Fearghal’s box .

What’s in it for them? Well, guess who controls all the highly-paid casual Saturday night-shifts at the Sunday Sentinel? None other than Dermot O’Donovan, brother of the more famous Fearghal .

Of course, Fearghal will deny Conference Chronicle ’s claim. Maybe it’s time someone went through the ballot papers and compared how many were filled in with the identical pen and the identical cross .

Lindsay reached the end of the piece ahead of the young man. She couldn’t keep a smile from her lips. There were a lot of journalists who’d be walking round with sanctimonious smirks on their faces when they saw that. All their wild claims about the corruption and nepotism of the traditional print unions would be vindicated by that one anonymous article. The air would be thick with the sound of ‘I told you so’.

‘Sure, they can’t prove a thing, so,’ the young man protested in the softer Dublin accent. ‘They shouldn’t be let away with the likes of this, though. Fearghal’ll be biting the carpet. Where did you get it?’

The woman, red-faced in her anger, said, ‘It was shoved under my bedroom door. Everybody’s got one. It’s a scandal, so it is.’

‘Who’s behind it?’ the young man asked, handing the sheet back as the queue moved forward.

‘It’ll be them bloody journalists, trying to run everything their way. As if it’s not enough that their man got the general secretary job, they have to stoop to telling lies about a decent man who’ll stand up to them.’ She was building up a fine head of steam. Lindsay hoped the woman wouldn’t round on her and demand to know which sector of the union she belonged to.

‘What’s Fearghal saying to it?’ the young man asked.

The woman snorted. ‘Let me tell you, that man’s a saint. He’s gone to see Standing Orders Sub-Committee about an emergency motion to clear his name. And in the face of this,’ she added, waving the offending article, ‘I don’t doubt they’ll see things his way. I’ve never seen the like, not in all my years as a union official. What we’ve got to do is, we’ve got to organise a proper investigation into who’s doing this.’

The young man shrugged. ‘It’d be a waste of time, Brid. Anybody could have done it.’

‘Only someone with access to a photocopier,’ she said triumphantly.

‘Brid, think about it. There must be half a hundred places in a city the size of Sheffield where you can get photocopying done. If it is a journalist, they could have pals on the local paper who are only too happy to run them off copies in the office. Plus, don’t forget, you can get these wee portable ones now, just the size of a briefcase. I bet half the journalists here, if they haven’t got one, they’d know where to hire one from. It’d be like looking for a needle in a haystack.’

‘I don’t know what this union’s coming to,’ the woman said. She continued grumbling, but Lindsay tuned her out, scanning the room for anyone she knew. She was dying to find someone who could fill her in on all the latest gossip. She had enough experience of the internecine warfare of union politics to know that Conference Chroniclewould be the one topic of conversation in the bars that night. There would be plenty of candidates for the position of scapegoat, she felt sure.

It was a long time since Lindsay had watched a witch-hunt. This time, she wanted a front row seat.

2

‘ Remember conference lasts for a week. Pace yourselves. And remember that fights you pick on Monday night will surely return to haunt you by Friday morning .’

from ‘ Advice for New Delegates’, a Standing Orders Sub-Committee booklet .

Jennifer crossed her legs and propped her notepad on her thigh. Lindsay had fallen silent. ‘It would be helpful if you could run through what’s happened since you got here,’ she said, gently.

Lindsay rubbed a hand over her face and muttered, ‘Sorry. I’m shattered. Monday. Well, I hadn’t even signed in before I saw the first issue of Conference Chronicle. The place was jumping. I kept having conversations with people I hadn’t seen for five years that all began, ‘Lindsay! It’s been ages. Have you seen Conference Chronicle?’

* * *

She’d been deep in thought when a loud shriek closely followed by a bear-hug brought her sharply back to the here and now. Kathy Dean, a civil service press officer was bouncing up and down in front of her. ‘Lindsay!’ she yelped. ‘Lindsay Gordon! Is it really you? Hey, no one said you were coming! Are you back for good?’

Lindsay shook her head. ‘Just for conference. I’m only here as an observer.’

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