The Mummyfesto (33 page)

By Wednesday afternoon, when I walked down the road to the station, cat-sick yellow was no longer the prevalent colour. There was purple. Lots of it. The Lollipop Party poster from the back of our leaflets. It made it seem real, somehow; convinced me that this wasn’t some fantasy I was playing out in my head. People were actually planning to vote for us. They believed in what we believed. I was tempted to do a little dance in the street. Only my pull-a-long overnight case stopped me – and the worry
that someone might look out of their window and change their mind.

The whole Radio 4 thing didn’t seem quite so daunting any more. We were there on merit. We were doing better in the polls than any of the other minor parties. Better than all of them put together, to be honest. Some people were even saying we should be invited to the real leadership debates, not just Radio 4’s alternative one. We wouldn’t be, of course. But it was still nice that they were saying it.

There were some things about London I missed. The anonymity, for one. While part of me liked the fact that everyone knew everyone else in Hebden Bridge, another part of me craved the idea of walking down the street and seeing a sea of unfamiliar faces. You could lose yourself here, if you wanted to. And there was something to be said for that.

I missed the noise too. The chance to let it blot everything else from your thoughts, to allow it to carry you along the street to wherever it was you were going next. You couldn’t do that in Yorkshire. At first I’d thought that was a good thing, but now I wasn’t so sure.

Returning to London was a little like running into an ex-boyfriend. There was a lurching feeling in your stomach as you remembered the things you liked, the things you missed, the things you couldn’t seem to get from anywhere else. It was a bit of a thrill, being reminded of all the great times you’d had. But tempting as it was to give it
another try, you knew it was a bad idea. Because whatever it was that had made you leave was probably still there. And if you looked hard enough you’d surely find it again.

I stepped off the train at King’s Cross station. Even that was a bit of a disappointment. I could still remember the time when you could slam the train door shut behind you. They hadn’t yet invented anything which gave as satisfying a feeling as that and I doubted they ever would.

I made my way towards the snack shop near the departure boards. David had always teased me about the fact that I was the only woman he knew who was unable to walk past a health food shop or stall without going in. It wasn’t there, though. Everything had changed. The arrivals side of the concourse was empty and a notice pointed to the shiny new departure area on the other side.

I went down to the tube station and was again reminded of how long I’d been away. There were those with Oyster cards and there were those without. And I was in the without camp. Not having one gave you a tiny inkling of what it might be like to arrive in this country as a refugee. I joined the queue of mainly foreign visitors and stood tapping my fingers on the handle of my case as the official Londoners whizzed past me, fast-tracked through the system. Some of them hadn’t even been born here and yet they were now more London than me. I wondered if they had any idea how fragile their status as Londoners actually was that if they went away for only a short time
the city would move on relentlessly without them and they would find themselves craving acceptance on their return.

I shuffled forward, everyone else in the queue seemed to be speaking in a foreign language. Maybe that explained why when I finally got to the counter the man behind spoke very slowly and in a loud, deliberate voice.

‘It’s OK,’ I said, ‘I’m from London. I moved away, but I do still understand the language, even a south London accent.’

He raised his eyebrows and said something like ‘hummpphh’ before handing me the appropriate form. Some time later, and after more form-filling than I suspected you needed for a passport application, I came away with a smart Oyster card wallet. It was only when I opened it up to look at the card that I saw they’d given me a commemorative Jubilee one. My first thought was to take it back. Sam would surely kick me out of the party for disloyalty to the republican cause, but one look at the queue changed my mind. I’d just have to destroy it once north of Watford again.

At least my parents’ house could be relied upon to stand still in time. Everything was as it had always been. It was only the fact that my father was now rather stooped and that my mother’s sleek dark hair had been replaced by a sleek grey bun that reassured me I had not emerged from the tube station into some kind of timewarp.

‘Hello, Anna, lovely to see you,’ my mother said, kissing me on both cheeks. Her obvious pleasure at seeing me
only succeeded in making me feel bad about how little I visited. How little we all visited, come to that.

I don’t think she’d ever got over me leaving. Our family was not the type that had sprawled out all over the country. My brother, Charlie, and his family were less than a mile away. I don’t think they could understand why London hadn’t been enough for me. Most of all I don’t think my mother had understood why I’d taken Will and Charlotte away from her. It hadn’t been too bad when they were small: we used to make the effort to come down to see them a lot more and both of the children would chatter away happily to her on the phone. But we didn’t get down nearly as often these days, and Will and Charlotte were both pretty monosyllabic on the rare occasions I could get them to the phone. Esme still talked to her, of course. It was difficult to shut her up. But I suspected my mother felt that to all intents and purpose she had lost the older two.

I kissed my father, feeling the frailness of his body as I held him. Fortunately his mind still had a youthful energy; he may have retired from lecturing now, but he was mentally as sharp as ever. Which was a huge relief really, as it was the one thing I couldn’t bear to think of: him losing his faculties in the way Jackie’s mother had. I don’t think my father could have coped with it. I suspected he’d gladly lose the use of a limb or two in return for keeping his brain intact.

I followed them through to the lounge, my mother’s piano still taking pride of place. I ran my fingers along
the closed lid, remembering the hours I’d sat at it as a child.

‘You’re welcome to play, Anna,’ Mum said.

I smiled and shook my head. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘You never play at home?’

‘I never seem to get the chance these days.’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I imagine this campaign is taking up rather a lot of your time.’

‘The polls are looking good,’ Dad said. ‘Extraordinarily good, to be honest.’

‘I know. I could hardly believe it myself. Whether it will last, we’ll just have to see.’

‘I expect the children are very excited about it,’ Mum said, plumping a cushion on the sofa for me.

‘Yes. Yes they are,’ I replied.

‘And David must be an enormous help,’ she added, ‘what with all his political experience.’

I smiled and nodded. Remembering now why we came down so rarely.

Arriving at the BBC was like going to a rather bizarre job interview where all the other applicants just happened to be leaders of political parties. Except, of course, we were well aware that the top three candidates for the big job were being interviewed on another day, we were merely the warm-up act.

I gave my name at the reception desk and clipped on my visitor’s pass while the receptionist called up to let them know I’d arrived.

‘Someone will be down for you in a minute.’ She smiled. ‘Do take a seat.’

I perched myself on the edge of a trendy purple sofa and straightened the collar of the crisp white shirt I had put on that morning. I’d gone for a black suit with a crop jacket and a long straight skirt. Businesslike, I thought, was the order of the day.

I had just picked up a copy of the
Guardian
from the coffee table when I heard a voice enquire ‘Anna?’

I looked up, the speaker was a man around my age, maybe a couple of years younger, with dark hair which, though cut very stylishly, still managed to look slightly messy.

‘Gavin Joyce, assistant producer,’ he said, holding out his hand.

‘Anna Sugden,’ I said, standing up and shaking it. ‘Thanks for inviting me.’

‘Not at all. I trust you’re impressed that we’ve got sofas in your party’s colours. I hope the others don’t notice otherwise we’ll have fresh allegations of BBC bias on our hands.’

I smiled, not knowing what to be more impressed with: the fact that he knew the Lollipop Party’s colours or that he was capable of humour before seven in the morning.

He swiped us through the security area and into a lift.

‘You’re the first here, actually,’ he said. ‘Which is probably a good thing as it will give me a chance to go through everything with you before all hell breaks loose.’

I nodded and followed him out at the second floor and
through to the studio area. Looking into the glass studio I could see John Humphrys’ head poking out from behind various pieces of equipment. Around the other side of the table six microphones were placed a small distance apart from each other. Six chairs crammed in around the desk.

‘It’s going to be a bit of a squeeze, I’m afraid,’ Gavin said. ‘We only had five people last time, but you guys have rather forced your way into the frame.’

‘Yeah,’ I smiled, ‘I guess we have.’

Gavin leant in close to me. ‘I’m probably not supposed to say this, but your party is an absolute breath of fresh air. All those tired old arguments and then you come along with a radically different agenda and turn everything on its head.’

‘Most people just think we’re crazy,’ I said. ‘Especially men.’

‘Oh, you’re crazy all right, but you’re clever with it. And when you’re running a topical-news programme, crazy and clever are exactly what you need.’

I smiled again, conscious of the colour rising in my cheeks. I wasn’t used to this. Being out there. Having political conversations with men I didn’t know. Having any type of conversation with men I didn’t know, come to that.

‘I don’t suppose you think we can actually win, though,’ I said.

Gavin looked up from a pile of papers he had been flicking through on his desk.

‘Why not?’

‘Convention. Money. Hundreds of years of tradition. The fact that at this very moment the editors of the tabloids are probably thinking of ways to annihilate us.’

Gavin smiled. ‘Ah, don’t let the little things put you off. I’d say you’re worth a tenner as an outside bet. You can still get bloody good odds on you.’

‘Well, thank you for your conviction,’ I replied. ‘I hope you enjoy your winnings.’

Gavin’s phone buzzed. ‘Right, you’ll have to excuse me,’ he said, ‘Galloway’s arrived. If you don’t mind pouring a saucer of milk while I get him, I’m sure it would be much appreciated.’

Half an hour later I was in the studio, positioned only a few feet away from George Galloway and still not daring to look at him in case I started laughing about what Gavin had said.

We were positioned boy, girl, boy, girl, boy, girl, around the table in what I suspected might be a prank on Gavin’s behalf. If you’d told me three months ago I’d ever end up sandwiched between George Galloway and Alex Salmond on Radio 4, I would have laughed you out of the room.

Caroline Lucas smiled at me in what I suspected was sisterly support. Sam, who appeared to regard her as nothing short of the green goddess of alternative politics, had actually suggested I ask her to defect to our party. Jackie, of course, had merely asked if I could find out how she kept her eyebrows so well maintained.

The format of the leadership debate had been explained to us quite clearly in advance. We had three minutes each
to make an opening statement, after which Humphrys would be asking us questions, some of which had been suggested by Radio 4 listeners.

I had my speech typed out in front of me. I had practised it so many times I suspected I wouldn’t even need to look at it, but it was there anyway as a sort of grownup comfort blanket.

Alex Salmond went first, sounding rather, well, Scottish really. He was followed by Nigel Farrage, who, until I’d told Jackie otherwise, she’d thought had actually died in that helicopter crash before the last election.