The word “love” in this case is most decidedly used to patronise, not as an endearment. Jasmine does not understand the tribalism. Looking at Hayburn’s crime statistics, she would suppose not being a local should make her more trustworthy, not less. But here, there is a widening circle of distrust, starting with family, stretching to “round here”, extending through “up North”, onward to English, then British and on the very fringes, to be treated with the utmost suspicion, foreigners.
In Jasmine’s own experience, she has met many extremely pleasant foreigners and many extremely unpleasant members of her own nearest and dearest, and she can’t imagine her experience is unique. Still, she acknowledges the existence of tribalism even if it is completely nonsensical and generally spends her time co-ordinating the teams of volunteers, leaving the task of communication to others. Occasionally, though, she needs to lead by example and join their efforts, particularly if sickness or a significant football match has depleted their numbers of volunteers.
Today is one such day. There is some reprieve for Jasmine as the canvassing area is one which almost qualifies as affluent and her accent may be taken as aspirational. The houses in this neighbourhood are semi-detached Victorian villas. In contrast to the back-to-back terraces whose front doors open directly onto the street, each of these houses has a little front garden, with a low wall sealing them off from the world. The little patch out front is often an indication of the owner’s mindset. It can be a patch of weeds, a wildflower garden; or an arid gravel desert, bare of life; or it can be a beautifully tended delight, with cottage garden borders and whimsical gnomes hiding among the vegetation.
Big bay windows showcase signs of life. This is the optimum time for door-knocking, when folks are back from work, but before they’ve settled down to watch telly for the night, a two-hour window of opportunity. The door-knockers work in pairs for safety and Jasmine is paired with Hattie. She was so focused on making sure she didn’t end up with Ben, she failed to notice he had managed to pair off with Lou until they were all set and trundling off to their designated streets.
To speed things up, Jasmine and Hattie each take a side of the street. But after every house, they check in with each other before moving on to the next. They work quickly, both of them carrying a tablet to enter the information garnered from an address; do they intend to vote, whom do they intend voting for, and do they need help to get to the polling station. Tory voters get nothing, confirmed Labour supporters a smile and a thumbs-up. The undecideds get more attention, time spent chatting on the doorstep uncovering and addressing concerns. Everyone gets a leaflet, if they accept one.
As they work, they have the occasional door shut in their faces. One person shouts in a querulous voice through a locked door for them to go away and Jasmine makes a note to call the resident instead and make sure they have transport to the polling station on the day. Far more encouraging are those who listen, who give them a chance to make the case for Ben Khan to represent these constituents in Parliament.
It is the last house on the street where things go awry. A woman answers the door with a baby on her hip, a toddler at her legs, and flat, dead eyes. She is pretty – immaculate make-up, rare on a mother with such young children and no help. Her clothes are simple but classy, jeans and a striped shirt.
Jasmine is mid-way through her introduction when the baby smiles at her. She halts and with a gentle “Hello” smiles back. The child, suddenly shy, burrows into its mother’s shoulder, dragging her shirt open. Livid bruises streak the woman’s skin over her collarbone – shades of red and purple, mixed with green and yellow, fresh injuries overlying older ones.
She is already pulling the shirt back into place as Jasmine’s eyes lift to meet hers. Softly, Jasmine asks, “Did your partner do that?”
The woman stops.
Nod.
“Is he here?”
Nod.
Jasmine can feel the woman’s despair and desperately wants to respond, dragging the mother and her children out of the house to safety. She is not attempting to hide or retreat, and Jasmine can sense she is at a crisis point. But she also knows the most dangerous time for any victim of domestic violence is when they try to leave.
She keeps her voice very low. “If you decide to leave, don’t tell him. Don’t pack. Just take your children and go.” She picks up a campaign flyer, turns it around to face the woman, and points at the printed address. “Come here and ask for Jasmine. Someone will always know how to find me. I will help you.”
One more thing occurs to her. “And leave your phone behind. He’ll track it.”
A toilet flushes. A door opens at the rear of the house. Through the hallway and the kitchen, Jasmine sees a man emerge. He looks normal, unremarkable – if she passed him in the street she would not have noticed him. There is absolutely nothing about him to indicate he is evil. Yet here in this house, day after day, he unleashes his own type of brutality. The woman backs away and turns, pushing the door shut. Jasmine stands outside for a few seconds, praying she has not jeopardised this woman further. To the world, she appears to be studying her tablet, but every part of her is straining to hear what happens next. She will call the police if she has to.
Muffled, dim, she hears words. A demand. “Who was that?”
A reply, faint, indistinct. “Labour Party. They left a leaflet. Here.”
A child’s giggle. Then nothing. Jasmine looks down at her tablet. The data from the electoral register gives the address and the name of the occupants: Mr Adam Smith and Mrs Natasha Smith. Jasmine turns to go. She has already lingered too long, every second increasingly suspicious.
Jasmine looks at the house from the pavement. She slides her eyes to the neighbours. These people must know; they must hear. She knows she shouldn’t judge – maybe they call the police, maybe they turn up the television. Domestic violence is always complicated. Feelings of worthlessness, fear, and even love stop people seeking help. It can take a long time and many attempts to break free.
Hattie, oblivious, is already waiting for Jasmine. No one had answered her knock. As the two of them move off together in the direction of the meet-up point, Jasmine is quiet. She lets Hattie ramble on as she thinks about her encounter. Was there something she could have said or done differently? Something that would have had an impact, tipped the scales, without endangering Mrs Smith more? Jasmine longs to save her, but she has enough awareness salvation can’t be forced on anyone.
Hattie pushes open the door of the pub where the canvassing team is set to congregate, and Jasmine sees most are already here. Ben is sitting next to Lou, the two of them looking very cosy. The shaft of jealousy is sharp and expected. Jasmine tries to ignore it. She nods to the landlord, a friend of Sean’s, and he comes directly to her end of the bar to take her order; a white wine for Hattie and fizzy elderflower for herself. She has more work to do when they finish here tonight. Besides, she knows better than to risk the acidic plonk served by the typical Hayburn pub. Hattie takes a seat as close as she can get to Lou, but Jasmine sits beside Pamela.
Lou’s voice is raised as she is telling the story of her evening. “And so he opens the door,” she says, choking back a giggle, “starkers.” She stops to swallow a laugh, then leans forward as if sharing a secret. “Not a stitch,” she explains. “And his thingy …” She makes a fist and then rotates her forearm until it is vertical. “And Ben jumps back like he thinks it is going to attack him. And his voice squeaks like a little boy’s as he shoves a leaflet at the bloke and says,” she raises her pitch, “‘Vote Labour’, and then he turns and runs.”
The table erupts in laughter. Ben smiles and waits for the laughs to subside before he responds, “Well, I thought he might try to shake my hand and I was certain I knew wherehishand had just been. Who answers the door, mid-wank?” He spreads his hands wide, palms up.
The table erupts again.
And Pamela leans over to Jasmine. “What do you think is going on there?” she says, eyes on the pair, voice low, words meant for Jasmine alone. And Jasmine wonders the very same thing.
An Unexpected Interlude
One advantage of having Ben’s mother on the front bench has been the ease with which Jasmine can persuade Labour grandees to visit, lending their weight and gravitas to the young candidate. Sometimes their staff have even approached her.
By and large, she leaves them to Ben to handle; he knows many of them as they are family friends. Today’s visit is different. The Labour Director of Communications is due. This is not the typical visit, here to press flesh as photographers snap fodder for social media, the local papers and, if a particularly slow news day, the national press. This visit is not newsworthy, but it is the most significant of Jasmine’s career because the DoC can make or break Jasmine.
