Chapter Eight

“Tuesday already? Where’s the time gone?”

If the truth were to be told, JRK had no grounds to berate himself either for lack of effort, or in relation to the results achieved to date.

Nuala was quick to respond and, as usual, had a logical. Pragmatic approach to the situation.

“Listen, John! You’ve got a solid base of local support.”

She started ticking things off on her long, elegant fingers.

“You’ve taken the trouble to respond personally to most of the people who’ve contacted you by phone or e-mail – and that’s as well as pumping flesh and making those who greet you personally feel that you’re concerned for them, for their welfare, their point of view.”

With the lightest of stresses on each of the three pronouns, she made it clear to her husband what she considered important about the achievements she was listing.

She continued:

“Keep that in mind to start with, and ask yourself: have any of the other candidates taken as much time and trouble over establishing a ‘personal touch’ to their campaign? Or even contemplated it in previous elections? You can be certain they haven’t! You’re breaking new ground here, John, and don’t you forget it!”
John knew she was right, and began to allow himself to relax just a little.

“Do you even know how many names you’ve got on this list?” she pressed her advantage while he was almost literally taking a step back, as if to look at the broader picture.

“These are all people who have asked to be contacted, who want to make a positive contribution to your campaign: people who have already decided to put their faith in you and the policies you stand for! Look, on this list alone there’s over four hundred names!”

As a matter of fact, JRK had a fairly accurate idea of how many people had already decided to nail their colours to the mast, and with this approximate figure in mind had already started to print off street maps radiating out from Childwall Fiveways, which was as close as made no difference to the geocentre of the constituency. These were to be handed to the teams of volunteers who would engage in the traditional, old-fashioned tactics of “doorstepping” to canvass support during the fortnight allocated for hustings in the run-up to the by-election.

“Yes, I know Childwall’s a hell of a size: d’you think I’ve bitten off more than I can chew?”
In the intimacy of their own, private home, JRK had no inhibitions about displaying a moment of self-doubt, when the only witness was his wife.

Nuala stopped what she was doing, and wrapped her arms around him.

“Never, ever, doubt yourself. John! I want you to promise me that, d’you hear? You’re a good man, and these people don’t realise just how good an MP they’re going to elect – because, believe me: elect you, they will!”

“Or they’ll have to answer to you, I suppose!” he grinned, lightening the mood “… and you’ll no doubt ‘senda rounda somma da boyz’” he added, with a grotesque parody of a ‘B’ movie Mafia-style bad guy. Laughing, they collapsed into each others’ arms and might have remained that way for some time but for an intrusive shrill from the front door bell.

John and Nuala were soon pressed for time (and occasionally for space) in dealing with the constant stream of visitors arriving, looking to become involved in whatever it took to canvass support for John and the fledgling RR party. Most came in pairs, sometimes in threes and fours: the occasional solo visitor was never kept waiting long before being paired off with someone. John was adamant on this point.

“We can’t take the chance of anyone being caught unawares, or being either compromised or put in a difficult or dangerous situation while they’re out drumming up support: I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to anyone!” he said by way of explanation, when asked.

“Put it this way: there’s a certain element of society today all too ready to create trouble for trouble’s own sake, and I don’t want anyone running unnecessary risks for my sake!”

Not that anyone particularly objected to being paired off with someone else. In fact, many of those who had arrived together clearly expected to be working together, and the whole process ran reasonably without a hitch. The only delays were caused by John having to sit down and draw up extra street map guides, as those which he had prepared in advance were soon snapped up.

“With the best will in the world, we’re never going to be able to “doorstep” the whole of Childwall” he admitted during an all-too-brief pause between printing maps and giving instructions to the next doorstepping team  “ .. but in the time we’ve got left before election day we’re just going to have to cover as much of the ground as we can and hope it will be enough. As long as each team can cover three or four roads in a solid block, we can target different parts of the ward each day.”

Quite unconsciously, JRK developed the habit of leaning close to each couple as he finished his short spiel of practical guidelines, making each couple feel that they were the most important thing in life for him and for the campaign’s overall success.

“ …….. and whatever else, remember one thing: the most important thing of all, I think!”

Pauising for dramatic effect, and to ensure they were listening carefully, he would suddenly relax and lean closer:

“Smile!” he said, suiting action to word “Go out there and enjoy yourselves …. !”

***

By mid-afternoon, the short December day was waning fast. The influx of fresh volunteers had slowed to an occasional trickle, and the first of the morning shift were beginning to report back. The latter were without exception enthusiastic and eager to commit themselves to covering a different ‘beat’ in the ward: many of them were free and ready to participate the following morning, Wednesday.

“There’s a significant student population in this ward, you know” he said, thoughtfully, as Nuala poured coffee for those present in the ‘inner sanctum’ of the kitchen. This had swiftly shown itself to be the one place which they could reasonably expect to remain their own private domain.

“Ye – e – esss …. and?” Paul prompted, uncertain where JRK’s thoughts were heading.

“So perhaps we ought to be able to find out from somewhere how many of them  - if any! – have registered to vote in Liverpool rather than “at home”, since they spend most of the year at Uni! And, assuming they’re registered to vote in Liverpool, perhaps we ought to be paying them a visit on campus before the end of the current semester ………”

“Semester? Isn’t that an American concept, John?” protested Chris, looking to Paul for support.

There was no need for Paul to intervene: with a disarming grin, JRK flung both hands aloft in an instant parody of obsequious surrender.

“Yes, yes, I suppose it is! Christmas term, then – even if it does sound uncomfortably like being back at school!”

Chris was already searching on the PC closest to where he happened to be sitting.

“There’s a new site called Liverpool.com” he explained as he waited for the site to react.

“We’ve had the Beta version for testing this last month or so, and it’s just been launched – last weekend, I think! – but it’s got lots of useful things on it you won’t find anywhere else …. Yes, here it is: I knew I’d seen something about the “floating population” of students in Liverpool: I have to admit, even I as a journalist didn’t realise just how many students there are in town: the population almost doubles throughout each term of the academic year: look at that!”

The figures on the screen were open to a certain amount of interpretation, but were pretty conclusive all the same. The population of Liverpool “topped out” at just over 445,000, showing an increase of almost 3% from the previous census almost a decade earlier, but when the transient student population was discounted, they showed a year-on-year nett population loss of almost a full percentage point per annum: and this figure was also, worryingly, fairly constant.

“We could argue these stats back and forth all night long, without proving anything either way” John muttered eventually, not really satisfied with the figures as they stood.

“Maybe, but I still think we should make an effort to capture the student vote” Chris protested, sensing that John was about to cry off.

“It’s not that long since we were all …. how shall I put it, of a ‘certain age’ when anything which smacked of rebellion against the status quo was almost impossible to resist. I just have this gut feeling that the student vote alone would almost certainly prove to be a ‘protest vote’ against the major parties, simply because they are the …. the …” he paused, looking for the most suitable term.

“The Establishment?” Paul suggested. One could almost taste the capital letter ….

Chris nodded.

“Exactly, precisely what m. Poirot would undoubtedly call the mot juste!”

“Okay you two, no time for posing with your foreign languages!”

Unlike his companions, JRK had opted for a range of Science subjects in Sixth Form and had therefore dropped French and other language studies after ‘O’ levels. This was but a shadow of the ancient bickering (mostly good-humoured) which existed between the Arts and the Sciences throughout their final years at school together.

JRK looked up from a notepad he’d been scribbling on as they were swapping insults.

“No matter how few they might be in number, catching the student vote would be one way of guaranteeing my deposit – and that’s not to be sniffed at!” he said, firmly.

“Fair enough: I wouldn’t fancy kissing five hundred quid ta-ra, either!” nodded Paul, and Chris nodded to acknowledge the basic common sense of this statement.

“But we’ll do more than save a deposit: we’re going to win this election!” said Nuala, surprising them all. This was the first time any of them could remember her making such a positive statement, unprompted by other comments. She glared at the group, daring them to challenge her outburst.

“What’s the matter? Aren’t I allowed to have an opinion?”

Unselfconsciously, feeling secure amongst friends, JRK reached out and pulled her close.

“Time out!” he said to nobody in particular, running his fingers through her hair as they kissed, deeply and at length. Curiously, neither Paul nor Chris felt any embarrassment or exclusion but waited patiently for their appointed leader to return to more practical matters.

The timeless moment they had managed to snatch for themselves was abruptly cut short by a discreet knock at the kitchen door Chris, being nearest to the door, waited until JRK and Nuala had disentangled themselves before opening it. After the briefest of hiccups, more teams were starting to return and report in after their canvassing, which for the most part had progressed well and indicated grounds for a cautious optimism. Nuala sat down at a PC conveniently placed out of the main traffic area and began to type neat, sanitised sentences based on the verbatim reports of the returning pairs of volunteers.

“ ……….. and that’s not all: wait till I tell you about the kids on the estate!”

Automatically JRK stiffened and glanced at his two closest aides-de-camp to confirm that they were also listening carefully. Behind them, and out of sight as far as the reporting volunteer was concerned, Nuala continued to type up what was being said.

There was, however, no indication in the speaker’s voice or demeanour to suggest that there had been a problem or even any unpleasantness. Forcing himself to relax, JRK nodded tacitly to encourage the self-appointed spokesman for the pair of volunteers to continue.

A curious expression crossed the speaker’s features, disappearing as quickly as it had come.

“It started about the time of the afternoon School Run, when the Mums start picking up the younger kids as they finish school, maybe three-thirty or so.”

“As we were going from one house to the next, we found first of all that the mums, nans, dads and everyone else we met seemed pretty well informed about RR policy, and we got the definite impression that a lot of them will definitely vote for you on when election day actually arrives!”
“But what we weren’t either expecting or prepared for was the reaction of the children! Even the youngest of them –say, four- and five-year-olds from the Infant classes, and certainly the older ones from other Primary classes plus the odd ones we met as they made their own way home from Secondary schools: they all seemed to be just as friendly and positive as the younger ones. No aggro, no showing off or abuse.”
The speaker paused, glaned at his partner for confirmation, and continued:

“I almost felt like the Pied Piper at one point, when we suddenly had a train or procession of young children, the oldest of them couldn’t have been more than about ten or eleven. They were following us down the road as we went from door to door, and they were singing: “Vote, vote, vote for Mr. Kirwan// He’s the best in all the world”

I know I’ve heard that melody before, I just can’t think where or when!” he concluded, pink with embarrassment at having sung the line aloud.

JRK roared with laughter and looked to Paul.

“Come on, maestro! Putting names to melodies used to be your strong point, as I recall!”

Paul grinned.

“That’s an easy one! The melody’s a popular hymn tune in the States, at least – and I think it’s probably used over here as well, but it’s one Proddy Dogs use rather than one you’ll hear used at Sunday Mass! It’s called “Jesus Loves the Little Children” and it’s probably been hijacked for other sets of lyrics time without number ……….!”

JRK’s immediate reaction was, Paul thought, a bit unexpected. He seemed upset, somehow, almost as if he was annoyed by the spontaneous carnivalesque antics of the children. Surely he could understand that, to them, it was simply an excuse to prance about and show that they had something to be happy about ….?

JRK sighed.

“Well, we can’t do anything about it now!” he grunted “ …. but it would have made a terrific photo opportunity, if we’d known it was going to happen ………..!”

“John, you old cynic, you!” accused Chris, with a belly laugh which took the sting out of the words. “Trust you to think of that!”
“On the other hand, perhaps we could allow for the possibility of the situation repeating itself – say, tomorrow?” Paul suggested “ … we must know someone, a Press photographer or someone else we can point in the right direction when the next lot of canvassing groups hit the streets…..?”

JRK grinned.

“And I thought I was supposed to be the opportunist, the charmer, the kisser-of-babies and all-things-to-all-Men that a politician is supposed to be?” he inquired.

“No matter!” he went on, making it clear that he regarded the question as hypothetical “But we ought to try and sort something out for tomorrow. I believe that can be done, however …….. ’scuse me a mo!”

He thumbed a speed-dial button on his mobile and waited a few seconds.

“Hello? Yes, it’s me. Not too late, I hope …. Good! Listen, can you drop a gentle hint – but not too subtly! – to someone in the photographers’ pool that it would be a good idea if they were to find themselves somewhere in Childwall tomorrow ……. ”

He spoke rapidly to the unnamed call recipient for another minute or so, then thanked them (without mentioning a name) and broke the connection. Looking from one to another, he treated them to his trademark grin:

“Alright, alright! Tomorrow you get to meet my newspaper contact, I promise! But I’ve had to be careful until now: she felt herself a bit insecure, as she hasn’t been at the paper for very long. However, it’s still her decision and hers alone as to if and when she wants to be revealed as my ‘mole’. I’ve never asked her to do anything remotely illegal or even questionable, but I want your understanding that she’s to be treated with kid gloves or the deal’s off!”

Neither Paul nor Chris found this condition unreasonable, and the impromptu pow-wow was soon to disband as the door closed after the departure of the last pair of volunteers on Nuala’s list. There was no doubt about it: this election campaign promised to be a very interesting ride for everyone concerned ……….