J. Rowling - The Casual Vacancy

The Walls would probably give her money. They were like that. She could imagine Tessa’s plain, concerned face, bending over a cot. Krystal would have their grandchild.

She would lose Fats in getting pregnant; they always went, once you were expecting; she had watched it happen nearly every time in the Fields. But perhaps he would be interested; he was so strange. It did not much matter to her either way. Her interest in him, except as the essential component in her plan, had dwindled to almost nothing. What she wanted was the baby: the baby was more than a means to an end. She liked babies; she had always loved Robbie. She would keep the two of them safe, together; she would be like a better, kinder, younger Nana Cath to her family.

Anne-Marie might come and visit, once she was away from Terri. Their children would be cousins. A very vivid image of herself and Anne-Marie came to Krystal; they were standing at the school gates of St Thomas’s in Pagford, waving off two little girls in pale blue dresses and ankle socks.

The lights were on in Nikki’s house, as they always were. Krystal broke into a run.

Samantha Mollison had now bought herself all three of the DVDs released by Libby’s favourite boy band. She kept them hidden in her socks and tights drawer, beside her diaphragm. She had her story ready, if Miles spotted them: they were a gift for Libby. Sometimes at work, where business was slower than ever, she searched the internet for pictures of Jake. It was during one of these trawling sessions – Jake in a suit but with no shirt, Jake in jeans and a white vest – that she discovered that the band was playing at Wembley in a fortnight’s time.

She had a friend from university who lived in West Ealing. She could stay over, sell it to Libby as a treat, a chance to spend time together. With more genuine excitement than she had felt in a long time, Samantha managed to buy two very expensive tickets for the concert. When she let herself into the house that evening, she glowed with a delicious secret, almost as though she were coming home from a date.

Miles was already in the kitchen, still in his work suit, with the phone in his hand. He stared at her as she entered, and his expression was strange, difficult to read.

‘What?’ said Samantha, a little defensively.

‘I can’t get hold of Dad,’ said Miles. ‘His bloody phone’s engaged. There’s been another post.’

And when Samantha looked nonplussed, he said with a trace of impatience, ‘Barry Fairbrother’s Ghost! Another message! On the council website!’

‘Oh,’ said Samantha, unwinding her scarf. ‘Right.’

‘Yeah, I met Betty Rossiter just now, coming up the street; she was full of it. I’ve checked the message board, but I can’t see it. Mum must’ve taken it down already – well, I bloody hope she has, she’ll be in the firing line if Bends-Your-Ear goes to a lawyer.’

‘About Parminder Jawanda, was it?’ asked Samantha, her tone deliberately casual. She did not ask what the accusation had been, first, because she was determined not to be a nosy, gossiping old bag like Shirley and Maureen, and secondly, because she thought she already knew: that Parminder had caused the death of old Cath Weedon. After a moment or two, she asked, sounding vaguely amused, ‘Did you say your mother might be in the firing line?’

‘Well, she’s the site administrator, so she’s liable if she doesn’t get rid of defamatory or potentially defamatory statements. I’m not sure she and Dad understand how serious this could be.’

‘You could defend your mother, she’d like that.’

But Miles had not heard; he was pressing redial and scowling, because his father’s mobile was still engaged.

‘This is getting serious,’ he said.

‘You were all quite happy when it was Simon Price who was getting attacked. Why’s this any different?’

‘If it’s a campaign against anyone on the council, or standing for council…’

Samantha turned away to hide her grin. His concern was not about Shirley after all.

‘But why would anyone write stuff about you?’ she asked innocently. ‘You haven’t got any guilty secrets.’

You might be more bloody interesting if you had .

‘What about that letter?’

‘What letter?’

‘For God’s – Mum and Dad said there was a letter, an anonymous letter about me! Saying I wasn’t fit to fill Barry Fairbrother’s shoes!’

Samantha opened the freezer and stared at the unappetizing contents, aware that Miles could no longer see her expression with the door open.

‘You don’t think anyone’s got anything on you, do you?’ she asked.

‘No – but I’m a lawyer, aren’t I? There might be people with a grudge. I don’t think this kind of anonymous stuff… I mean, so far it’s all about the other side, but there could be reprisals… I don’t like the way this thing’s going.’

‘Well, that’s politics, Miles,’ said Samantha, openly amused. ‘Dirty business.’

Miles stalked out of the room, but she did not care; her thoughts had already returned to chiselled cheekbones, winged eyebrows and taut, tight abdominal muscles. She could sing along with most of the songs now. She would buy a band T-shirt to wear – and one for Libby too. Jake would be undulating mere yards away from her. It would be more fun than she had had in years.

Howard, meanwhile, was pacing up and down the closed delicatessen with his mobile phone clamped to his ear. The blinds were down, the lights were on, and through the archway in the wall Shirley and Maureen were busy in the soon-to-be-opened café, unpacking china and glasses, talking in excited undertones and half listening to Howard’s almost monosyllabic contributions to his conversation.

‘Yes… mm, hmm… yes…’

‘Screaming at me,’ said Shirley. ‘Screaming and swearing. “Take it bloody down,” she said. I said, “I’m taking it down, Dr Jawanda, and I’ll thank you not to swear at me.”’

‘I’d’ve left it up there for another couple of hours if she’d sworn at me,’ said Maureen.

Shirley smiled. As it happened, she had chosen to go and make herself a cup of tea, leaving the anonymous post about Parminder up on the site for an extra forty-five minutes before removing it. She and Maureen had already picked over the topic of the post until it was ragged and bare; there was plenty of scope for further dissection, but the immediate urge was sated. Instead, Shirley looked ahead, greedily, to Parminder’s reaction to having her secret spilt in public.

‘It can’t have been her who did that post about Simon Price, after all,’ said Maureen.

‘No, obviously not,’ said Shirley, as she wiped over the pretty blue and white china that she had chosen, overruling Maureen’s preference for pink. Sometimes, though not directly involved in the business, Shirley liked to remind Maureen that she still had huge influence, as Howard’s wife.

‘Yes,’ said Howard, on the telephone. ‘But wouldn’t it be better to…? Mm, hmm…’

‘So who do you think it is?’ asked Maureen.

‘I really don’t know,’ said Shirley, in a genteel voice, as though such knowledge or suspicions were beneath her.

‘Someone who knows the Prices and the Jawandas,’ said Maureen.