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Later, he sat at the bar of a packed, noisy pub and had a ploughman’s lunch with Griff, washed down with a pint of Somerset cider.
“If Fisher resigns and a by-election is called,” said Griff, “I’ve already told the Bristol Evening News that the local Labour party won’t be interviewing anyone other than the former member.”
“Cheers,” said Giles, raising his glass. “How did you manage that?”
“Twisted a few arms, made the odd threat, offered the occasional bribe, and promised the chairman an MBE.”
“Nothing new then?”
“Except that I did remind the committee that if the Tories are going to have a new name on the ballot paper, perhaps we should stick with one the voters are familiar with.”
“What are you doing about the increased aircraft noise what’s comin’ out of Filton? It’s a bloody disgrace!”
“I’m no longer your MP,” Giles reminded the man politely as he headed toward the door.
“I didn’t know that. When did that happen?”
Even Griff had the grace to laugh. After they had left the pub they both donned their blue and white scarves and along with six thousand other supporters watched Bristol Rovers beat Chesterfield 3–2.
In the evening, Emma came to Barrington Hall for dinner, but she wasn’t very good company. She left long before Marsden served coffee.
Giles settled down in his grandfather’s favorite chair in the drawing room, a brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. He was thinking about Karin when the phone rang. He grabbed it, hoping to hear Harry’s voice on the other end of the line, but it was Griff. Who else would call him at that time of night? When Griff told him the news about Fisher, Giles felt sorry for the man for the first time in his life.
* * *
Mr. Trelford spent his weekend preparing for Lady Virginia’s cross-examination. But it wasn’t proving easy. She would have learned from Fisher’s mistake, and he could hear Eddie Makepeace advising her to remain calm at all times and not to let him goad her. However hard he tried, he couldn’t come up with a ploy to break through her defense.
The wastepaper basket was full, and the A4 pad in front of him was blank. How could he demonstrate to the jury that Emma’s mother had been right when she compared Virginia to her Siamese cat, Cleopatra? They are both beautiful, well-groomed, vain, cunning, manipulative predators, who assume that everyone else was put on earth to serve them.
It was two o’clock in the morning and he was going over some old Barrington’s boardroom minutes when he came up with a new line of questioning.
* * *
Major Fisher had driven out of the Commons car park soon after the House had risen on Friday afternoon. One or two colleagues had wished him luck, but they didn’t sound convincing. As he drove down to the West Country, he thought about the letter he would have to write if his local executive committee didn’t support him.
He remained in his flat all the next day, not turning the front page of the morning papers, not bothering with breakfast or lunch as the lonely hours ticked by. Long before the sun was over the yardarm he began opening bottles and draining them. During the evening, he sat by the phone and waited impatiently to hear how the committee had voted on the No Confidence motion. He returned to the kitchen, opened a
tin of pilchards, but left them on the table, untouched. He sat down in the drawing room to watch an episode of Dad’s Army, but didn’t laugh. Finally, he picked up a copy of Friday’s Bristol Evening Post, and looked again at the front-page headline:
LOCAL CONSERVATIVES TO DECIDE FATE OF MP. SEE LEADER, PAGE ELEVEN.
He turned to page eleven. He and the editor had always been on good terms, so he had rather hoped … but he didn’t get beyond the headline.
DO THE HONORABLE THING, MAJOR.
He tossed the paper aside and didn’t turn on the light as the sun disappeared behind the highest building.
The phone rang at twelve minutes past ten. He grabbed the receiver, and immediately recognized the voice of the local party chairman. “Good evening, Peter.”
“Good evening, major. I won’t beat about the bush. I’m sorry to say that the committee didn’t support you.”
“Was it close?”
“I’m afraid not,” said Maynard. “It was unanimous. So it might be wise for you to write a letter offering your resignation rather than waiting for the executive committee to formally deselect you. So much more civilized that way, don’t you think? I am sorry, Alex.”
No sooner had he put the phone down than it rang again. It was a reporter from the Post asking him if he wanted to comment on the unanimous decision to call for his resignation. He didn’t even bother to say “No comment” before slamming the phone back down.
In an alcoholic blur, he walked unsteadily through to his study, sat down and placed his head in his hands while he thought about the wording of the letter. He took a sheet of House of Commons paper from the letter rack and began to write. When he’d finished, he waited for the ink to dry before he folded it, sealed it in an envelope, and placed it on his desk.
