Richard Exmore’s legacy of hard work and public service is indeed gone, and Jasmine now has no time to waste on sentiment.
Once More unto the Breach
About the same time Jasmine is facing the onslaught of a woman betrayed, deep in the bowels of Westminster three men sit in three armchairs, each placed at the corner of a triangle.
“It’s a fucking mess,” says the Chief Whip of the Labour Party. “Did you know?”
Tom Sandford, MP of a constituency neighbouring Hayburn and long-time friend of Richard Exmore, shifts uncomfortably. “He had been rather bouncy of late,” he answers cautiously. “I did wonder what was going on.” Now was not the time to confess Richard’s drunken evening full of unwanted confidences. As far as he was aware, only two people knew about that night and one of them was dead.
“There will be a by-election, of course. We can drag it out a bit. Give everyone time to forget,” says the Chief Whip.
“Forget? Have people forgotten Profumo? That was over half a century ago! This isn’t going away,” interjects the Director of Communications for the Leader of the Opposition. “And look what happened to the Tories in the election afterwards. We need that seat. Richard held it against the Red Wall defection. To win the next election, we’re going to need every seat we’ve got and a lot more we haven’t.”
“Tom,” he continues, “what is the grassroots party like?”
“Not terribly active, more of a social club, really. It was a safe seat, after all. The swing to the Tories at the last election took us all by surprise.”
“We’ll need someone on the ground then to get them moving. Any ideas?”
The MP considers for a minute. “His researcher is remarkably competent. She’s not from the area but she’s had contact with the Party, the local councillors and many of the local businessmen. And she’s currently out of a job.”
“But is she tainted by association? Might she have known about the affair?” The Director of Communications asks the hard questions.
“I doubt it,” Tom replies. “She was his researcher, not his personal assistant. And she’s odd. A crusader. I would say she’s more loyal to the cause than the person.”
“Excellent!” The Chief Whip barely holds off from rubbing his hands. “Obviously we can’t pay her, but we can let her know she’ll be taken care of after the by-election. There’s always a special advisor job going somewhere. She’ll have redundancy payouts till then.”
“We’ll still need a brilliant Campaign Manager and a superb candidate. It’ll be a shame to waste serious talent on a shithole like Hayburn, but it can’t be helped. We all know the shit that’s coming down the line,” warns the Director of Communications.
Three middle-aged, white males each look morosely into their drinks and huff. It may take a minor miracle to save Hayburn and the world is sadly short on those.
***
In Hayburn, with their MP dead, the Constituency Office staff are leaderless. While Pamela Taylor, who heads up the office, is a fearless administrator, she lacks any talent for strategy and direction. Unaware of the Party’s power mongers’ plans for her, Jasmine steps into the breach, anyway. It is Jasmine who briefs the local campaign army of door knockers and leaflet pushers, the few left, on how to respond.
She starts with a pep talk.
“We all had a relationship with Richard,” she says. “Each of us knows the truth of what he is. We need to hold to that. Believe what you know, what he did for you. Ignore the rest, especially what you see printed in the papers. After all, how many of them are known for their fair, unbiased reporting?”
She waits until the laughter dies down, although she hadn’t intended the question as a joke.
“Peoplewillraise it on the doorstep though. Distinguish between those who knew Richard personally and those who didn’t. Those who did, ask if he helped them and tell them to focus on that. Don’t forget, Richard spent years helping constituents. There will be many out there who have benefited from his aid. If they didn’t know Richard, the best we can do at the moment until we get a candidate is to focus on the Labour Party.”
At least to date in Hayburn, the Party has always trumped the Member of Parliament. That is exceptionally valuable now.
She includes a final warning. “Whatever you do, do not be drawn on smearing Richard or endorsing the rumours.”
Respect for the dead, even one looking as grubby as Richard Exmore, will buy them something, even if not much.
She knows Labour HQ is scrambling for a new candidate. But who? At the next election, less than a year away, Labour will be fighting to retake all the seats lost in the previous election. The strongest candidates will already have been allocated to the attempt to win back the heartland. But if they do not field someone who epitomises the Party, the Labour voters in Hayburn won’t desert and vote Tory, they just won’t vote. And that will be enough to lose a seat which has been red for as long as it has existed.
Jasmine is just about to close her laptop and go home when she sees an email notification. She sits up in her seat, for she recognises the name on the email address. This one is from the Director of Communications for the Labour Party. Jasmine can’t recall ever receiving a direct email from such a powerful figure before. She has received hundreds of his general missives but this one appears directed at her and is titled “Labour Party candidate for Hayburn”.
She opens it quickly and skim reads the text looking for information. Jasmine has long been a fan of the bullet list but the Communications Director is obviously less succinct. She reads it through once and then starts again. They are applying Special Measures to impose a candidate on Hayburn rather than running the normal months-long process of applications, nominations, long and short listings and campaigning to choose a candidate. Jasmine skips over his reasoning as in her head it makes perfect sense with the looming General Election. The name. She wants the name. If it is a seasoned campaigner, they will have their own team and she and her colleagues will be out of work. If it is someone new, there is a chance they might keep the old team in place.
She tracks down the email until she finds it. Then she rears back in horror and slams the lid of the laptop shut. She looks around the empty office, closes her eyes, and says one word.
“Fuck.”
