Jeffrey Archer - First Among Equals

“I couldn’t be sure, Mr. Fraser, but I think he was here that evening. Trouble is, O’Halloran came almost every night. It’s hard to recall.”

“Do you know anyone who might remember? Someone you could trust with your cash register?”

“That’d be pushing your luck in this pub, Mr. Fraser.” The landlord thought for a moment. “However, there’s old Mrs. Bloxham,” he said at last, slapping the drying-up cloth over his shoulder. “She sits in that corner every night.” He pointed to a small round table that would have been crowded had it seated more than two people. “If she says he was here, he was.”

Andrew asked the landlord where Mrs. Bloxham lived and then, hoping she was in, made his way to 43 Mafeking Road, neatly sidestepping a gang of young children playing football in the middle of the street. He climbed some steps that badly needed repairing and knocked on the door of number forty-three.

“Is it another general election already, Mr. Fraser?” asked a disbelieving old lady as she peered through the letterbox.

“No, it’s nothing to do with politics, Mrs. Bloxham,” said Andrew, bending down. “I came round to seek your advice on a personal matter.”

“A personal matter? Better come on in out of the cold then,” she said, opening the door to him. “There’s a terrible draft rushes through this corridor.”

Andrew followed the old lady as she shuffled down the dingy corridor in her carpet slippers to a room that he would have said was colder than it had been outside on the street. There were no ornaments in the room save a crucifix that stood on a narrow mantelpiece below a pastel print of the Virgin Mary. Mrs. Bloxham beckoned Andrew to a wooden seat by a table yet unlaid. She eased her plump frame into an ancient stuffed armchair. It groaned under her weight and a strand of horsehair fell to the floor. Andrew looked more carefully at the old lady. She was wearing a black shawl over a dress she must have worn a thousand times. Once settled in her chair, she kicked off her slippers.

“Feet still giving you trouble, then?” he inquired.

“Doctor doesn’t seem to be able to explain the swellings,” she said, without bitterness.

Andrew leaned on the table and noticed what a fine piece of furniture it was, and how incongruous it looked in its present surroundings. He was struck by the craftsmanship of the carved Georgian legs. She noticed he was admiring it. “My great-grandfather gave that to my great-grandmother the day they were married, Mr. Fraser.”

“It’s magnificent,” said Andrew.

She didn’t seem to hear because all she said was, “What can I do for you, sir?” The second time that day he had been addressed by an elder in that way.

Andrew went over the O’Halloran story again. Mrs. Bloxham listened intently, leaning forward slightly and cupping her hand round her ear to be sure she could hear every word.

“That O’Halloran’s an evil one,” she said, “not to be trusted. Our Blessed Lady will have to be very forgiving to allow the likes of him to enter the kingdom of heavens.” Andrew smiled. “Not that I’m expecting to meet all that many politicians when I get there either,” she added, giving Andrew a toothless grin.

“Could O’Halloran possibly have been there that Friday night as all his friends claim?” Andrew asked.

“He was there all right,” said Mrs. Bloxham. “No doubt about that — saw him with my own eyes.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Spilled his beer over my best dress, and I knew something bad would happen on the thirteenth, especially with it being a Friday. I won’t forgive him for that. I still haven’t been able to get the stain out despite what those washing-powder ads tell you on the telly.”

“Why didn’t you inform the police immediately?”

“Didn’t ask,” she said simply. “They’ve been after him for a long time for a lot of things they couldn’t pin on him, but for once he was in the clear.”

Andrew finished writing his notes and then rose to leave. Mrs. Bloxham heaved herself out of the chair, dispensing yet more horsehair on to the floor. They walked to the door together. “I’m sorry I couldn’t offer you a cup of tea but I’m right out at the moment,” she said. “If you had come tomorrow it would have been all right.”

Andrew paused on the doorstep.

“I get the pension tomorrow, you see,” she replied to his unasked question.

It took Elizabeth some time to find a locum to cover for her so that she could travel to Redcorn for the interview. Once again the children had to be left with a baby-sitter. The local and national press had made him the hot favorite for the new seat. Elizabeth put on what she called her best Conservative outfit, a pale blue suit with a dark blue collar that hid everything on top and reached well below her knees.

The journey from King’s Cross to Newcastle took three hours and twenty minutes, on what was described in the timetable as “the express.” At least Simon was able to catch up with a great deal of the paperwork that had been stuffed into his red box. Civil servants, he reflected, rarely allowed politicians time to involve themselves in politics. They wouldn’t have been pleased to learn that he spent an hour of the journey reading the last four weekly copies of the Redcorn News.

At Newcastle they were met by the wife of the Association treasurer, who had volunteered to escort the minister and Mrs. Kerslake to the constituency to be sure they were in time for the interview. “That’s very thoughtful of you,” said Elizabeth, as she stared at the mode of transport that had been chosen to take them the next forty miles.

The ancient Austin Mini took a further hour and a half through the winding B-roads before they reached their destination, and the treasurer’s wife never drew breath once throughout the entire journey. When Simon and Elizabeth piled out of the car at the market town of Redcorn they were physically and mentally exhausted.

The treasurer’s wife took them through to the constituency headquarters and introduced them both to the agent.

“Good of you to come,” he said. “Hell of a journey, isn’t it?”

Elizabeth felt unable to disagree with his judgment. But on this occasion she made no comment, feeling that if this was to be Simon’s best chance of returning to Parliament she had already decided to give him every support possible. Nevertheless she dreaded the thought of her husband making the journey to Redcorn twice a month as she feared they would see even less of each other than they did at present, let alone the children.

“Now the form is,” began the agent, “that we are interviewing six potential candidates and they’ll be seeing you last.” He winked knowingly.

Simon and Elizabeth smiled uncertainly.

“I’m afraid they won’t be ready for you for at least another hour, so you have time for a stroll round the town.”

Simon was glad of the chance to stretch his legs and take a closer look at Redcorn. He and Elizabeth walked slowly round the pretty market town, admiring the Elizabethan architecture that had somehow survived irresponsible or greedy town planners. They even climbed the hill to take a look inside the magnificent perpendicular church which dominated the surrounding area.

As he walked back past the shops in the high street Simon nodded to those locals who appeared to recognize him.

“A lot of people seem to know who you are,” said Elizabeth, and then they saw the paper rack outside the local newsagent. They sat on the bench in the market square and read the lead story under a large picture of Simon.

“Redcorn’s next MP?” ran the headline.

The story volunteered the fact that although Simon Kerslake had to be considered the favorite, Bill Travers, a local farmer who had been chairman of the county council the previous year, was still thought to have an outside chance.