‘But I’m not.’
‘And then I want you back in Roxton to canvass the council estate between five-thirty and seven-thirty, when most people will be getting home from work. But you can take a break between seven-thirty and eight o’clock.’
‘Why then?’
‘Because you’ll only lose votes if you interrupt someone while they’re watching Coronation Street.’ Sasha and Charlie burst out laughing. ‘I’m not joking,’ said Alf.
‘And after that, do I keep on canvassing?’
‘No, never knock on anyone’s door after eight. I’ve arranged for you to address another public meeting, this time at the Roxton YMCA.’
‘But only twelve people bothered to turn up to the last one. And that included you, Charlie, and Mrs Campion’s dog.’
‘I know,’ said Alf, ‘but that’s still five more than the last candidate managed. And at least when you sat down, the dog was wagging its tail.’
*
Sasha was surprised by the warm welcome he received on the doorsteps and in the streets during the last week of the campaign. Several people commented on the fact that Fiona had refused Sasha’s challenge to a public debate on the grounds that she couldn’t agree on a date with all the candidates, which produced another favourable headline: ‘ANYTIME SUITS ME SAYS LABOUR CANDIDATE’.
‘You’ll know you’ve made it,’ said Alf, ‘when they replace the words “Labour candidate” with your name.’
‘Especially if they get the spelling right,’ said Mrs Campion.
Alf nodded towards Charlie, who was chatting to a young man outside the local Jobcentre. ‘And what’s more,’ said Alf, ‘if your wife was the candidate and your mother agreed to open a restaurant in Merrifield, we’d have a far better chance.’
During the last few days before the vote, Sasha didn’t even bother to go home, but slept in Alf’s spare room, so he was always up in time to greet the morning commuters.
*
Polling day was one long blur as Sasha rushed around the constituency, knocking on doors that had a tick on the party’s internal canvass returns, to remind their supporters to vote. He even drove some of the elderly, lame and lazy to the nearest polling station, although he wasn’t sure that all of them actually voted for him.
When the polls closed at ten o’clock on Thursday evening, Alf told him, ‘You couldn’t have done more. In fact I’d say you’re the best candidate we’ve ever had.’
‘Thank you,’ replied Sasha, then whispered to Charlie, ‘It was a one-horse race.’
After half a pint of bitter and a shared packet of crisps in the Roxton Arms, Alf suggested they make their way across to the town hall, where the count was already under way.
When Alf, Sasha and Charlie entered the main room, they were greeted by rows and rows of long tables, where volunteers were placing ballot papers into separate piles, while others were counting them, first in tens then in hundreds and finally thousands.
They spent the next couple of hours walking around the room, discreetly checking the piles. Alf told Sasha more than once that he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When the town clerk, as returning officer, announced the result just after 3 a.m., a gasp went up from the Conservative ranks, while the Labour Party workers began applauding and slapping Sasha on the back.
Alf wrote down the figures on the back of a cigarette packet and stared at them in disbelief.
Roger Gilchrist (Lib) 2,709
Fiona Hunter (Con) 14,146
Screaming Lord Sutch (Ind) 728
Sasha Karpenko (Lab) 11,365
Janet Brealey (Ind) 37
‘I therefore declare that Fiona Hunter has been duly elected as the Member of Parliament for the constituency of Merrifield,’ announced the town clerk.
Fiona stepped up to the microphone to make her acceptance speech. She began by thanking her party workers and went on to say how much she was looking forward to representing the citizens of Merrifield in the House of Commons, but never once mentioned the names of her opponents. When she stepped aside to allow Sasha to take her place, she received less than enthusiastic applause.
Sasha followed and accepted defeat graciously, congratulating his opponent on her well-run campaign, and wishing her success as Member of Parliament. Once all five candidates had delivered their speeches, Sasha left the stage to rejoin his team, who were celebrating as if they’d won by a landslide.
‘You’ve cut their majority from 12,214 to less than 3,000,’ said Alf. ‘That will look very good on your CV, and God help whoever follows you as our candidate at the general election.’
‘Won’t you want me to stand again?’ asked Sasha.
‘No, we won’t expect you to do that,’ said Alf. ‘Not least because I have a feeling you’ll be offered several winnable seats before then, possibly even a safe Labour one.’
‘I’ve loved every moment of these last three weeks,’ said Sasha.
‘Well, you don’t have to be bonkers to be the Labour candidate in a seat like Merrifield,’ said Alf, ‘but it certainly helps. My final responsibility as chairman is to make sure you catch the last train back to Victoria.’
‘I think you’ll find it’s the first train to Victoria,’ said Charlie.
As they walked onto the platform for the last time, Alf kissed Charlie on both cheeks, then shook hands warmly with Sasha.
‘You were a fine candidate, sir,’ he said. ‘I hope I live long enough to see you take your seat at the Cabinet table.’
*
The four of them met once a quarter. It wasn’t formal enough to be described as a board meeting, or casual enough to be thought of as a family get-together. The meeting always took place around a table in the alcove of Elena One at four o’clock on a Monday afternoon. Late enough for all the lunch guests to have departed, and early enough to be finished before the first dinner booking arrived.
Sasha always chaired the meeting, while Charlie acted as secretary, preparing the agenda and taking the minutes. Elena, as head chef, and the countess as a fifty per cent shareholder, made up the quartet.
As they all saw each other regularly, it was rare for anything on the agenda to take them by surprise. A barman had stolen one bottle of whisky too many and finally had to be sacked. Elena reluctantly had to change her baker when too many customers rejected the contents of the bread baskets. She had once told Catering Monthly that you can produce an award-winning meal only for it to be ruined by a stale bread roll or a lukewarm cup of coffee.
Any other business, the last item on the agenda, usually consisted of agreeing on a date for the next meeting. But not today.
‘I picked up a piece of information yesterday,’ said Sasha, ‘that I thought I ought to share with you.’ The other three became unusually attentive. ‘Luini’s are about to announce that they’ll be closing their doors after forty-seven years. It seems young Tony Luini isn’t a chip off the old block, and since his father’s death, they’ve been steadily losing customers. So the family are putting the restaurant up for sale. Tony approached me and asked if we might be interested.’
‘What exactly is he selling?’ asked Elena. ‘Because there’ll be little or no goodwill.’
‘A fourteen-year lease with an option to renew.’
‘Rent and rates?’ asked Charlie.
‘The rent is ￡32,000 per year, payable to the Grosvenor Estate, and the rates are around ￡20,000.’
‘How far away is it from Elena One and Two?’ asked the countess, ever practical.
‘Just over a mile,’ said Sasha. ‘About ten minutes in a taxi.’
‘If it’s not raining,’ said Charlie.
‘My father,’ said the countess, ‘used to say never spread your assets too thin. And as we only have one irreplaceable asset, I think Elena’s opinion is the one that matters. Especially if you were thinking of naming the restaurant Elena Three.’