“Okay. Leave it with me.” Jasmine surveys her little team. She sees Lou and Hattie gazing at her father with stars in their eyes and catches a whisper between them: “Doesn’t he look like the Earl of Grantham?” She debates sending one of them but doubts they have the staying power. They’ll be on their phones or gossiping with the youngsters. Her eyes alight on Eleanor. There is something forceful about her sister. Few people will brush past her when she asks for their details. Perfect.
Within minutes, Jacob is ferrying his wife to the Scout hut and Jasmine has shifted into organiser mode. Her father, Jake, and Lily all have a list of names and addresses of people who had pre-registered for help with transport to the polling station. She makes a mental note to send Lily, who has Phoebe riding with her, to any last-minute requests which come in from people with reduced mobility, whether it’s a broken leg or a flare-up of a more chronic condition.
As volunteers arrive, they are either sent back out again to canvass or they take their places at one of the desks to start making phone calls. Jasmine’s organisational machine is humming smoothly. The one person she struggles to use is her mother. Lady Larkford is not a political animal nor a Labour supporter. Phones and canvassing are out. She would put her mother on supplying teas and coffees to the team, except Lady Larkford’s coffee is more bitter than an anti-malarial and anyone requiring oat milk is likely to find themselves served dairy.
For now, her mother seems content to sit quietly in the corner, watching everyone. Mid-morning, Jasmine finds her mother her first job. She dispatches her mother to the bakery down the road to fetch sticky buns and pastries. Lady Larkford waves away any suggestion of Jasmine paying and returns with two paper carrier bags full and one arm curled around a pile of boxes. Jasmine goes into the little kitchen for paper towel but by the time she comes out, the boxes are decimated and there is not much left. She sees Ben take a custard Danish and wordlessly passes him a torn-off towel. He takes it, pops his pastry down on it, and licks his fingers. Jasmine’s stomach flutters and she glares at him. He retreats to his office. He will be leaving soon, going to press flesh in a shopping centre, hoping to scare up some last-minute votes.
Her mother materialises at her elbow. “What is going on between you and the candidate?” she whispers.
“Nothing.”
“Are you sure?” Her mother cocks her head. “He looks at you a lot. And just now, I saw how you reacted.”
“There is nothing going on between us,” Jasmine says more firmly. “And he’s dating one of the volunteers.”
“More fool him,” her mother replies. She starts collecting the empty packaging and carries it to the kitchen. Jasmine follows.
“What do you mean?”
“Just that you are a prize, my lovely. He’s an idiot if he is chasing someone else when he could have you.”
“First of all, I’m not lovely. And secondly, what makes you think he could have me?”
Lady Larkford laughs. “You are lovely in your own way. Oh, I’ll grant you that you’re not classically beautiful but your warmth shines through. Why do you think that lad was so besotted with you? All those years ago.” Jasmine is grateful she doesn’t mention his name. Petey had always been something of a sensitive topic with her mother. After Jasmine had introduced him to her family, she had badgered her mother for her approval. Eventually, Lady Larkford had responded, “He’s fine, Jasmine. Just remember, the person you fancy at sixteen is very rarely the person you are with at sixty.” By which Jasmine had realised her mother did not think Peteyfineat all.
Time had proved them both wrong. Jasmine acknowledges if Petey were alive today, they would not still be together and her mother’s unthinking snobbery had hit reality when confronted with Eleanor’s unshakeable love for Jacob Winter.
“You have your father’s charisma. It’s not subtle or gentle or charming. It’s like being run over by a steamroller, but it is addictive.” Lady Larkford looks at Jasmine, eyes soft with love.
“I have eyes and I know my daughter,” her mother continues. “You like him and I don’t mean platonically. He affects you like he’s one big slice of triple chocolate fudge cake.”
It is a day of surprises. Jasmine stays silent, contemplating her mother’s words. There are so few moments of intimacy between them, moments when she has felt she can bask in her mother’s love, she doesn’t want to destroy this one. But she has to ask.
“Why did you never stop them? The twins? When they were having a go at me?”
Lady Larkford looks at her for a moment, then reaches out and takes her hand. “From when you were a little babe, your elder sisters would fight all your battles for you. But it was clear, from early on, you were never one to compromise to anyone. You needed to learn resilience, but Eleanor and Anna wouldn’t let you. Perhaps I should have reined in Phoebe, for her sake, more than yours. I fear she is a little too wild for her own good.”
Jasmine considers the reply. She cannot help but think she would not do the same with her own children, but it made a difference to find out therewasa reason. It was not just sheer indifference to her awkward middle child. It is never too late to find out your mother loves you. She closes her eyes and finds a knot inside of her, that she has carried for years, has loosened, unravelled, and slipped away.
Her mother’s hand moves to Jasmine’s head, smoothing back her curls. “I am so proud of what you have done here. You have built something from ruins. That is phenomenal. When Ben gets elected, he will owe it all to you.”
“Ifhe gets elected.” Jasmine has stood on doorsteps and heard the strength of feeling from the voters’ mouths – the conviction that all politicians are dishonest and corrupt. Many of their traditional voters will stay at home.
“When,” her mother says firmly. “Now, don’t mind me. You go and do your job, and I’ll clear up here. I’ve ordered some sandwiches for lunch and I’ll pick them up later. I figured we’ll phone for pizza at dinnertime. I’ve got it all covered. You go do your thing.”
Jasmine walks out of the kitchen feeling younger than when she went in. She sees Ben emerge from his office, off to his first canvassing roadshow in the main shopping area. By evening, he will switch to swinging by the local pubs. She will not see him again until they meet at the count. Her job is to stay here and co-ordinate their last push. Ben raises his hand in a gesture of farewell as he weaves through the volunteers. With her mother’s proud words in her mind, Jasmine gives him a broad smile in return and is surprised to see his eyes light up. A quick nod and he is gone, and Jasmine is left wondering if her mother might be more perceptive than Jasmine gives her credit. The moment is fleeting. Her natural cynicism takes hold again. Men like pretty, sweet, and pliable. Ben had once appreciated her version of unaffected, forthright and resolute, but he has long since made his current preference clear. He is not hers, not now, not ever. She shakes her head. She has work to do.
And the Winner Is
Jake drops Jasmine at the Hayburn Sports Centre before he heads off to wait for his wife at the Westfield Scout Hut. When the polling stations close at ten, he and Eleanor will head home. Jasmine stands in the carpark and gazes across at the uninspiring building, which looks remarkably like someone has plopped a floppy chef’s hat on a concrete bunker. Its grimy plastic roof, illuminated by the streetlights, is stark against the night sky. Built in the last century when a stray pot of money had accidentally landed in the town, it is long past its best. It should have been replaced a decade ago but as long as it doesn’t actually fall down, it will continue to serve because funds for replacement are non-existent.
Jasmine sincerely hopes the Centre doesn’t collapse tonight as it is the only venue in the locality suitable to hold the count, an unintended function it has performed since construction. She checks the time and crosses the tarmac. People are dribbling in from all directions – officials, candidates, agents, observers and guests. She looks for Ben, but cannot see him. The entrance is currently blocked as an official patiently explains to a Conservative observer she cannot wear heels into the count because it will damage the floor.
Someone didn’t read the email. Jasmine feels smug. Personally, she cannot think of anything worse than standing all night on high heels and bounces happily on her ballet flats. There is an energetic bustle; everyone is eager to enter before the postal votes are verified. It is easy to pick out affiliations. Officials are in white or beige tops and dark bottoms, mainstream candidates and their supporters in party colours or wearing garish rosettes and the perennial oddities who crop up in every election are in foil, fairy outfits, or other fancy dress.
She is enveloped by the scent of sweat, damp, and chlorine – the eternal smell of a sports centre with an ailing ventilation system. She is not herself a fan of organised exercise, preferring walking and carrying shopping to a treadmill and weights, so she has seldom been in the building. But the smell hasn’t changed since she was here for the last count, not long into her employment with Richard Exmore, when he held on to his seat in the great Red Wall defection of Labour voters.
Pamela is not here tonight as she was then. A discussion between the two of them on the wisdom of a woman with cancer staying up all night had led to Pamela’s capitulation. It will be the first count she has missed since working in the constituency office. Jasmine knows what a disappointment it is, but believes Pamela’s family is probably profoundly grateful. From the little Pamela has said, they are not happy about her continuing to work, and this might have pushed their opposition to the limit.
